You find the package after rounds — your name written in a slanted scrawl you’d recognize anywhere. It’s not just the cost of the gift that shocks you. It’s the intention behind it.
The shoes are exquisite — deep red satin with a stiletto sharp enough to make you blush. They fit perfectly. And the note?
Wear them tonight. Or don’t. But don’t blame me when I spend the whole gala thinking about them digging into my back. Fix that
You can barely swallow.
The gala is loud, full of fake smiles and even faker donors. House leans against the bar, nursing something amber and pretending not to watch the entrance.
But then — you walk in.
Red stilettos. His stilettos.
His glass nearly slips from his hand.
He catches up to you near the edge of the room, voice low and dangerous.
“Cute shoes,” he mutters. “Some creep leave those in your locker?”
You turn slowly, toe pointed, leg arched just enough for him to imagine them wrapped around his ribs.
“I figured I’d give the poor bastard a thrill.”
His voice dips lower, hungry.
“You wore them. You wore them,” he repeats, almost disbelieving .He smirks, but his eyes are molten. “Now I’m gonna have to find a reason to drag you into the nearest room and beg for my life.”