“The director may have mentioned it,” I said between clenched teeth, deciding against telling the girl I’d wanted to hire my own social secretary, and that I hadn’t even decided if I needed one. “I’ve been a little busy the past couple of days, so I forgot.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The million-watt smile returned in full force, and Nelia hefted her binder a little higher. “I’ve already organized your calendar and made some appointments for you. I’ve also made some additions to your wardrobe for your social engagements.”

“You what?” Whirling around, I darted into my room and headed straight for the walk-in closet. Sure enough, space had been made in the front for a variety of conservative but very expensive-looking robes and dresses in all kinds of colors and fabrics. I instinctively cringed at the thought of how much all this stuff had to cost as I riffled through it, before remembering I was rich now, and also engaged to one of the wealthiest men in Canalo. But still…

“Are the clothes not to your liking, Miss Baine?” Nelia asked. I turned to see her standing just outside the entrance to my closet, worry stamped all over her heart-shaped face. Guilt twanged in my gut as I realized I was being incredibly rude to her.

“No, they’re fine,” I said, letting out a sigh as my hand fell away from a dark pink dress with a high collar and gold buttons. There was nothing here that I would hate wearing, even if these more conservative fashions weren’t something I would have picked off a rack myself. As Iannis’s future wife, I needed to expand my wardrobe and style choices a little bit. I wasn’t going to ditch my leathers and boots, but I had to have the correct outfits for many different occasions on hand.

“Oh good, I’m so glad to hear that.” Nelia smiled, then lifted her binder. “May we adjourn to the sitting room, so we can go over a few things? I promise this won’t take long.”

“Sure,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. I followed her out to the sitting area, and settled onto one of the pastel green couches. Nelia perched on the chair next to me, crossing her well-toned legs as she flipped open her binder. She pushed her glasses up her narrow nose as she scanned the pages with her dark grey eyes, lips pursed.

“I took the liberty of dealing with all the mail you received after your article was printed,” she told me.

“Article?” I echoed dumbly, my mind racing to catch up with hers.