“Two floors up!” she says. “Come on in.”

We rush past the first floor, which is receiving cases of vodka and Champagne, and the quieter second floor. Upstairs is a renovated attic, divided up into two sides. We turn right, to a large open bedroom—the kind where even the bath is right in the middle of the room, despite there being several doors. One must be for toilets as those aren’t exposed, thank god.

It’s gorgeous and modern. I notice the kind of stuff I saw downstairs Sunday. I would have previously assumed Dez was a gymnast. Now I know better. The bed itself is a heavy metal canopy with no curtains hanging, displaying the complex network of iron bars forming a gorgeous pattern. I spot cuffs hanging from the ones at the foot of the bed.

Well, then.

I’m certainly not judging. She wasn’t expecting my company, so she didn’t tidy her room for guests. And even if she had, I doubt she would have hidden much of that.

Plus frankly? I know all that is a lot of fun.

Her walk-in closet is much larger than mine, and at first glance, I see it’s set up for her and Markus, his side on the left. Each closed door is covered by a floor to ceiling mirror, and there’s a large bench in the middle. The mirror on the ceiling tells me it’s not just to be able to check out outfits.

“We should be around the same size. I organize them by color. Just grab whatever suits your fancy.”

“Anything?” I repeat, my hand sliding from fabric to fabric.

She seems to have just about every color and material—taffetas, velvet, leather, and more.

“Well, maybe not the underwear. I’ve done some messed-up stuff in those. Although, I should have a few new pieces somewhere…hang on.”

While she opens one of the doors, filled with drawers and shelves, my eyes catch on a pale pink fabric. I know, I know. There’s plenty of pale pink in my own wardrobe. But not like this.

I pull the dress out. My grandma would say half of it is missing. More than half: the entire back and some of the skirt.

The lower layers are tulle, with a satin skirt underneath, and the top, a slightly shiny fabric I can’t name.

This is my own wardrobe, except adult.

“Can I borrow this?”

“Oh!” she grins, looking at the dress. “Darling, you can have it. I bought it as a joke of sorts. I don’t do the whole cute pink thing anymore.”

That much is true. Currently, she’s wearing ripped tights, a denim skirt, and a tank top with mesh sleeves underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s ready for dinner, too. What’s more, she looks sexy as hell. She wouldn’t have freaked over her wardrobe like I did.

Except this dress tells another story.