Dirty Husband Read online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Billionaire, Romance Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

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I sign on the dotted line. For a moment, I feel that weight lift off my chest. I taste the freedom. I hear the fucking music.

Then a knock on the door calls my attention. Shepard's assistant. Lock.

What the hell?

My lawyer motions for him to enter. He steps inside with a let's get this done look.

"Ms. Lee." He offers his hand. "How are you this morning?" He holds up something else. A thermos. "Key prepared it before I left. It's supposed to stay warm for twelve hours, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Thank you." It's there, my name on the dotted line, the notarization, the lawyer's signature. I'm officially his. "Have you come all this way to bring me tea?"

"If only, Ms. Lee," he says.

"Jasmine, please."

He nods of course. "If only, Jasmine. Unfortunately, my plans for the afternoon—knocking off work to put the city's most expensive champagne tea on your fiancé's credit card—have to wait."

I like the way he thinks.

I shake my lawyer's hand with a quick thank you, then I stand and meet Lock at the door.

He smiles as he hands me the mug. "Your fiancé has dinner plans. He needs you to buy a dress."

"What's wrong with this?" I smooth my pencil skirt. It's not fancy, but it looks professional enough. I guess that answers the question.

I look like an assistant. And who shows up to dinner with his secretary? That sends the wrong image. Even for Shep.

Better for me to look like a trophy wife.

"I believe"—he leans in to whisper—"the idea is to show off your lovely figure."

Oh. Of course.

"Make the other men jealous." He shakes his head how silly. "You are a beautiful girl. I understand the impulse."

I am an object for him to parade. And he can tell me what to wear. So many fun terms to this agreement. It's like Shep is trying to make earning this million dollars as painful as possible. "Yes."

"Men." He shrugs what can you do? "I have an appointment at a store you'll love. Unless you'd rather find something on your own." Despite his friendly tone, the implication is clear. I should take his help. I should allow him to dress me correctly. So Shep is pleased.

I suppose I should expect as much. He's specific about his home, his office, his suits, his car. Why not his wife to be?

Is moderation in Shepard's vocabulary? Subtlety? Temperance?

This is New York City. It's possible to find gorgeous, one of a kind clothes in a hundred different spots, at every price point imaginable.

There are knock offs in Chinatown, gorgeous vintage numbers in the village, trendy dresses in Brooklyn.

And here, at this exclusive boutique in SoHo, expensive designer gowns with four-figure price tags.

Do people really pay this much for a dress they'll wear, what, three times? It's ridiculous. My frugal nature screams look online, there are better deals. That dress on display is gorgeous—a deep plum with a sweetheart neckline and a mermaid skirt—but it's not worth—

Shit, is that really the price? My head gets light. My knees knock together.

"Jasmine—" Lock catches me before I can full-on faint. "Don't tell me Key prepared the tea incorrectly."

I can't help but laugh. He's good at his job. Assuming part of his job is keeping the wife in line. "No, it was perfect. But hot. I'm a little flushed."

"Shall I find you water?" he offers.

I nod sure.

"Look around. The manager is in the back. She'll be meeting us soon. If you need assistance."

If I need assistance. Or when I pick out something that isn't to Shep's liking.

It's hard to imagine Shep actually caring about what dress I wear. Sure, his intentions are still mysterious and vague, but since when does he care about clothes?

I do a quick walk around the shop. It's a normal size for the city. Small, but still open and airy. A podium in the middle of the room. Neat racks along the wall. Gowns sorted by design.

There aren't enough dresses to sort by color or style or size. No one wants something someone else is wearing. That's the ultimate embarrassment.

What is it like to have problems so trivial?

I shouldn't be dismissive, I know. I'm no longer a scrappy underdog. I'm already part of the elite. I shouldn't judge.

But it's hard to feel generous with these price tags surrounding me.

This dress is gorgeous—a deep rose and black floral print chiffon—and it could cover two months of expenses. Rent, food, water, electricity.

Two months of necessities or a gown for one evening.

But then I'm no longer a struggling assistant. I'm a rich man's fiancée. A year from now, I'm a millionaire.

Seven figures doesn't go as far as it used to, especially in a city this expensive, but it means never worrying about rent again.

Never fixing another peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner because I can't afford groceries.

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