If wearing that stupid elegant dress and following the lead was only the way through which she can reach that asshole—that arrogant bastard who had the audacity to call her his—then fine. So be it. Danica wasn't above theatrics.
She willingly put on the dress, painted her lips in the exact shade of "screw you", steam-curled her hair to vintage bombshell perfection, and tucked her trusty little Glock into the thigh holster beneath the dress's tasteful slit.
Drama? Present.
Danger? Always.
Gun? Obviously.
She looked like a woman who would seduce you and then shoot you in the kneecap for fun.
Perfect.
Then she descended the grand staircase like she owned every brick in the damn mansion—only to be greeted by a sea of very large, very armed men in suits. Rifles. Everywhere. Her terrified house staff cowered on one side like extras in a crime drama, eyes wide, mouths open, too scared to even blink.
WTF! Was this a kidnapping or the Met Gala for the mob?
