"I've got the dress—so when are you coming to marry me?" "Valeria." The line was thin, polite, then gone. "Deacon, answer me." She laughed, too loud. "I'm serious. I'm standing in the studio with the dress I designed for you." Silence. Then: "This is not the time to joke." "It isn't a joke. I packed it myself. I—" "Valeria." His voice shut her down. "Do you know how this sounds?" "It sounds like a woman who waited nine years for a promise," she said. "It sounds like—" "I didn't ask you to like me." He cut the sentence clean. "I never asked for that." The world narrowed to the cold concrete of those words. "Excuse me?" She pressed the phone harder to her ear. "You told me—" "I told you nothing that was a contract," Deacon said. "I hired you to design an evening gown. I paid for your work. I am not responsible for your feelings." "You said you'd stand by me," she whispered. "I said I'd stand by my responsibilities," he replied. "That does not include matchmaking or romantic pitfalls." "So you're telling me I'm deluded," she said. "You're telling me I built this up for nothing." "You built something in your head." He sounded clean, efficient. "You made a choice." "Did you ever think maybe I needed you?" Her voice broke. "Did you ever—" "No." He said it like closing a file. "No. And Valeria, it