Seven

Chapter 7

Arin

If my life had closed captioning, it’d read something along the lines of [incoherent mental screaming] right about now. I mean, what are the chances?

I recognized him the moment I stepped into the room, just as breathless as the first time we met. My mouth is dry, a jumble of thoughts trying to arrange themselves into coherent sentences on the tip of my tongue. What am I supposed to say?

My first instinct is to tell him about Felicia, that he has a daughter he doesn’t know about, but I decide against it. That’s not something you can just unload on a person. I’m worried about how he might react. Will he freak out? Call me a liar? He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to panic, but I honestly don’t know what to expect.

I debate with myself as I quietly slip into one of my dresses, draping the others I brought over the guest chair as an impromptu display. Maybe I should hold off telling him the truth for now. After all, I don’t know a single thing about him. Is he really a loan shark? But this clearly isn’t his office. Unless he lied to me and gave me a fake name the day we met, and he’s really called Lorenzo? Besides, even if he isn’t Lorenzo himself, he clearly works for the man.

And what about the fact that he used to hire, or maybe still does hire, escorts? Taking advantage of women in that position is despicable. But I don’t know that for sure; I only have the word of his associate, who seemed like a complete scumbag. Who knows what the truth is there?

Smoothing the delicate fabric of my dress, I take a deep, contemplative breath. Maybe I can use this opportunity to get a better sense of him. The last thing I want is to welcome him into Felicia’s life without knowing his character. I refuse to do that to my daughter, so for now, I’ll focus on the task at hand.

I clear my throat. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

I’ll give credit where credit is due, Dominic didn’t peak once while I was getting changed. When he turns, I’m suddenly reminded of the intensity of his gaze as it sweeps over me, raking over every inch of my body with precision. I stand tall, my head held high as I ignore the pooling heat gathering between my legs.

“This is my best piece,” I tell him, biting back the nervous excitement thrumming through my veins. “My greatest influences are Chanel and Dior, especially some of their more classic collections. I wanted to give their elegant styles a modern update, combining sleek with sexy meant for people of all sizes.”

Dominic remains perfectly still, his gaze so dark and hungry I’m not sure if he’s even listening. I continue anyway, because once I start talking about all things fashion, my brain is a runaway train on speed.

“The fabric I purchase is sustainably sourced, and everything is sewn together by hand. I’ve got at least fifteen other pieces at my studio. It’s easier to get a sense of their silhouettes when they’re on a model, but as you can see, they’re very haute couture.”

“And see-through,” he grumbles, his eyes landing squarely on my chest.

I glance down. Nothing particularly suggestive is showing thanks to strategically placed floral appliques I stitched by hand, but the sheer fabric of the corseted bust of my dress is just transparent enough to give him a peek at the lace bra I have on underneath.

“It’ll look better once I have the funds to hire a model,” I say, ignoring the rapid beating of my heart. God, he looks at me like he wants to eat me. If he keeps this up…

I just might let him.

He glances away like I’ve slapped him across the face.

“You think twenty thousand is going to be enough?” he asks, glaring at the floor like it holds the answer to life’s mysteries.

“More or less. I’ve factored in the cost of renting a venue for the runway, the general cost of marketing to get my name out there, and the amount of money I’d need to hire a small crew of assistants and models for the actual show.”

“You’re aware that our interest rates are exponentially higher than that of a bank, correct?”

I swallow, unable to dislodge the sticky lump in the back of my throat.

“I’m aware, but I don’t have very many options.”

Dominic is quiet for a moment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks… conflicted. He dares to look at me again, this time taking in the small details of my dress. He steps forward silently, entering my space with ease. He brings with him the scent of his earthy cologne and the heat of his body, hovering barely a few inches away.

He circles me slowly, taking me in. A small gasp escapes me when I feel the tips of his fingers gently graze down the delicate appliques sewn onto the back of the dress. His touch is light and fleeting, yet it leaves a firestorm trailing in its wake.

“Interest is calculated weekly,” he murmurs close to my ear. His voice sends a shiver down my spine.

“I know.”

“What do you have for collateral?”

I wait on bated breath, feeling him loom just out of my field of vision. “I don’t have much,” I whisper. “But these dresses are worth their weight in material.”

“I don’t have much use for a dress collection,” he replies quietly. “Please. I know my label is going to be a massive success.” “How do you know?”

“I can feel it.”

Dominic clicks his tongue, his fingers whispering down my forearm to linger just at my wrist. He takes my hand and lifts just so, studying the detailed embroidery work I put into the beaded sleeves. I designed them to look like tiny floral buds in bloom, the glass beads shimmering under the warm office lighting. My hand looks so small in his big, rough one.

It’s at this moment that I suddenly remember why I was so taken with him the first time, all those years ago. It’s not just his good looks, but his essence. He exudes silent command and respect. I’ve heard stories of people who walk into the room and own it. Standing here before me, there’s no question Dominic is one of them. He’s the sort of man I have no doubt could do whatever the hell he wants, but right now, all he wants to do is look at me. It’s easy to get high off the feeling, his attention unspeakably addictive. And the fact that he’s giving it to me so freely makes me so damn hot it hurts.

He finally steps away with a sigh. “I can’t give out loans based on a feeling, Marina.”

“Arin, please,” I insist, ignoring the panic rising in my chest. “I can pay

the loan back, I swear. I have what it takes to be a great designer. I just need somebody to give me a shot. I’ve worked my ass off to get here and—”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Then why? Aren’t loan sharks supposed to be…” “What?” he challenges.

I set my jaw. “Don’t loan sharks play it fast and loose with who they give their money out to? You’re counting on people like me to miss payments so you can profit off the interest.”

“Maybe I’m different.”

“Dominic, please.” I peer up at him, my sweaty hands clenched. “If you don’t approve this loan, then that’s it. I’ll be stuck making dresses for quinceañeras and sweet sixteens for the rest of my life. All I need is for someone to give me a chance.”

He leaves my side and returns to his office chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. “My answer is no,” he says sternly. And then, under his breath, “Trust me. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Favor?” I echo, incredulous. Ignoring the sting of tears in my eyes, I gather my other garments and pack it all away.

Dammit, this is so embarrassing! It’s one thing to be rejected by a bank, but to be turned down by a loan shark, too? Is my dream of becoming a fashion designer really that much of a lost cause? Just when I thought I was making progress, life had to go ahead and kick me in the stomach.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thank you for your time.” “Marina, wait—”

I’m already out the door, the train of my dress fluttering behind me as I whip around the corner to leave.