Imogene Scott

The car comes to a smooth stop in front of the restaurant, and for a moment, I just sit there, staring at the entrance of Sadio Vouche. My heart feels like it’s caught between a slow, heavy thud and a rapid flutter, uncertain of how to steady itself.

I take a deep breath, adjusting the hem of my dress and running my fingers along the delicate fabric. It’s the one Keith sent to me. I tossed Damien’s own aside. Plus, this dress is perfect. It clings to my figure elegantly with just the right amount of allure.

The color being black makes me feel confident too—like I’m in...