"Have you put on the dress I left?" Gallagher's voice floated from the doorway. "No," Gracelyn said. "Not yet." Her hands were on the fabric, on the zipper at the back. She heard herself steady her voice. She had practiced that calm in the mirror a hundred times. Gallagher laughed. "Good. I like the waiting part." He stepped into the room, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. He looked exactly like every photo the tabloids used—expensive, contained, dangerous. "You want the script?" Gracelyn asked, holding the dress at her chest. "I can—" "Do it," he said. "Improvise and I call the shots. Stick to the plan, Miss Blevins." He watched her like he could read stage directions off her skin. Her mouth moved. "The Kennedy partnership is important. Mother says—" She stopped. She could not sound like a daughter trying to sell a merger. She had to sound like someone he had loved. "You sound rehearsed," Gallagher said. "Try sounding dead." He sat on the edge of the bed, hands steepled. "Or better. Try sounding like the woman whose face you wear tonight." Gracelyn's fingers tightened on the zipper. "I am not—" "You will be," he said. "Take it off." "No," she whispered. Gallagher's smile hardened. "Do you know what plays better in private, Gracelyn? Compliance." He stood. "Undress." She looked at the dress again. The silk was smooth, pale, designed to show what mattered—shoulders, a line of collarbone. It was the dress he had kept folded