My Fiancé's Mistress Tried to Strip-Search Me

Four years in Zurich pretending I had to check the price tags. Mother's rules—blend in, stay invisible, don't let anyone connect the name Vitti to the girl in the lecture hall. I'd followed them without complaint.

But I was back now. Back in New York, back for the engagement dinner, back for the life I'd been waiting to return to. And the first thing I wanted was a dress worth wearing to meet my future husband.

I found it on the center rack of a boutique on Fifth Avenue—black velvet, floor-length, exactly right. I pulled it out and turned to the nearest associate.

"Can you wrap this up for me?"

A hand shot out and grabbed it first.

Red nails. No hesitation. The woman who took it didn't even glance at me—just held the dress against herself in the mirror like it was already hers.

"I'll take this one," she told the associate.

"I had that first," I said.

She looked at me then. The flat shoes. The plain white shirt. Nothing to read. I watched her decide exactly who I was in about three seconds.

"Twelve thousand dollars." She smiled. "Could you even afford the tax on it?"

"That's not the point. Put it back."

"No, I think that is exactly the point." She turned back to the mirror, pressing the velvet to her collarbone. "Look at yourself. What are you even doing in here?"

"Shopping," I said. "Same as you. Except I was here first."

She laughed—a real laugh, like I'd genuinely surprised her. She glanced at the associate, then at the two women standing nearby, pulling them in, making sure there was an audience.

"She thinks being here first means something." She shook her head. "Honey, this isn't a queue at a grocery store. This is Fifth Avenue. It goes to whoever actually belongs here."

She pulled a gold card from her bag and set it on the counter with a deliberate little click.

"Ferrante family account," she told the associate. "Ring it up."

The associate looked between us, and I could see the exact moment she made her decision. She reached for the dress.

"I'm Nico Ferrante's sister," the woman added, almost bored now, like she was explaining something to a child. "In case that means anything to you. Which, looking at you, I'm guessing it doesn't."

Nico Ferrante.

My fiancé. The man I'd never met, the engagement arranged while I was still in Zurich.

And this was his sister.

"It means something," I said quietly.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting, half-smiling. Daring me to finish the sentence.

I didn't. Not yet.

"Oh, this is sweet." She looked around at the small audience that had gathered—a few customers, two associates, all carefully not getting involved. "She has something to say." Back to me: "Go ahead. Say it. I want to hear what a girl in flat shoes has to say to a Ferrante."

Somebody nearby laughed. Softly. Quickly. But it was there.

"Get out." Her voice dropped, pleasant and final. "You don't belong here. We all know it, you know it, and the longer you stand there the more embarrassing it gets—for you." She nodded at the associate. "And make sure the door staff know to be more careful. Some people just shouldn't be let in."

The associate began wrapping the dress in tissue paper without meeting my eyes.

I stood there for a moment. Then I took out my phone, found the number I'd been saving for a proper introduction—Nico Ferrante, personal—and pressed call.

Two rings.

"Who's this?"

Flat. Already annoyed.

I looked at the woman smoothing the velvet in the mirror, done with me, already somewhere else in her head.

"Your fiancée," I said. "We have a problem."