I really am feverish, my brain bouncing around like a pinball machine. It’s hard to focus long enough to get dressed.

This dinner is a little less formal than the gala. I’m about to grab one of my pretty pastel party dresses, but then a wicked spirit seizes me, and I grab a different dress from the closet instead.

This is one I’ve never worn before—emerald green, near-backless, with a slit up the thigh. Material thin enough that you could crumple the whole thing up and stuff it in a clutch. I slip on a light jacket over top, so my parents won’t notice.

I line my eyes a little darker than usual, and I wear my hair down loose around my shoulders. I have wavy hair—dark, with just a hint of red in it if the light hits it right. My father always tells me I look best with my hair up, but I suspect that’s because I look a little more wild when it’s down.

That’s alright. I feel a little bit wild tonight.

I don’t get this way very often. Actually, I can’t think of a single night when I left the house in a spirit of rebelliousness.

Tonight I’m thrumming with energy. The evening air feels crisp against my face. Even the exhaust from the waiting car smells sharp and exciting.

Wilson is driving me. He’s being extra nice—I think he feels guilty that I was “kidnapped” on his watch. Even though I told him a dozen times it wasn’t his fault.

He takes me over to the Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. The pavilion looks like a vast chrome spaceship touched down in the middle of the park. It’s bizarre and futuristic, and to my eyes, quite beautiful.

Because the pavilion is used for outdoor concerts, it includes a huge oval trellis stretching out over the grass, to create the perfect acoustics for outdoor listening. The trellis is strung with golden lights, and indeed, it’s reflecting the sounds of the string quartet playing on the stage.

The open lawn is already crowded with partygoers. The Young Ambassadors is a youth organization for young people interested in a career in foreign service. In practice, it’s stuffed with the kids of diplomats and politicians, looking to pad their resumes for college applications.

I’ve been a part of it for five years, first in France and now here. Plenty of the kids have attended international events, so I see at least a dozen people I recognize.

One of them is Jules, a boy from Stockholm whose father is a Swiss Councilor. As soon as he sees me, he comes over with an extra glass of sparkling apple juice in hand.

“Bonsoir Simone!” he says, handing me the drink. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I already knew he was in Chicago. Mama made sure to tell me. Jules is exactly the kind of boy I’m allowed to date—when I’m allowed to date at all. He’s polite, respectful, from a good family.

He’s actually pretty cute, too. He’s got dirty-blond hair, green eyes, a smattering of freckles, and the kind of perfect teeth you only get from early and expensive orthodontic intervention.

I had a crush on him a couple years back, after we both attended a fundraiser in Prague.

But tonight, I notice how I’m actually an inch taller than him in heels. He looks childish in general compared to Dante. That applies to everyone here. Dante makes even grown men look like boys.

Still, I smile back at Jules and thank him for the drink. I always remember my manners.

“You look . . . wow,” Jules says, letting his eyes flit over the revealing green dress. I took off the jacket and left it in the car with Wilson.

“Thanks,” I say.

Usually I’d be blushing, regretting my choice in the sea of girls dressed like they stepped out of a Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But tonight I’m feeling myself. I’m remembering the way Dante attacked me with his hands and mouth, like my body was the most luscious one he’d ever laid eyes on.

He made me feel sensual. Desirable.

And I liked it.

“Fernand and Emily are here, too. Would you like to sit at our table during the dinner?” Jules asks me.

He gestures over by the stage, where two or three dozen white-linen-covered tables have been erected, with formal place settings and covered bread baskets all ready to go.

“I—oh!”

I was about to say yes. Until I caught sight of a hulking figure at the edge of the field, standing away from the lights. Though I can’t see his face, I recognize those Goliath proportions immediately.

“What it is?” Jules asks me.

“I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room,” I say abruptly.

“Of course. It’s over by the—”

“I can find it!” I say.

I hurry away from Jules, leaving him standing there with a baffled expression.

I don’t go directly over to Dante. I walk as if I’m headed to the portable toilets, then I cut back the opposite direction, slipping away from the amphitheater, and into the trees of Millennium Park.

This is the first time I’ve directly broken the rules.

When Dante stole the car with me in the backseat, that wasn’t really my fault.

The same when he broke into my room. I couldn’t be blamed for either of those things.

But now I’m making a conscious choice to leave the party and go meet a criminal in the woods. This is so unlike me that I hardly know myself. I should be sitting at a table with Jules, sipping sparkling apple juice like a good girl.

But that’s not what I want at all.

What I want is stalking me through the shadows under the trees. I can hear his heavy tread behind me.

“Are you lost, miss?” he growls.

“I might be,” I say, turning around.

Even though I came over here to find him, I still feel my heart rising up in my throat at the sight of him.

I didn’t realize he was standing so close. In heels, I’m almost six feet tall. Dante still towers over me. In width, he’s at least double my size. That stern, brutal face is terrifying in the darkness. His black eyes glitter.

I’m trembling. I can’t help it. I feel naked with his eyes roaming over me.

“Did you get the flowers I sent you?” Dante says.

“Yes,” I squeak.

He steps even closer to me, so I can feel the heat of his broad chest, just inches from my face.

“Did you wear that dress for me?” he says.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Take it off,” he says.

“W—what?” I stammer.

We’re only a hundred feet from the party. I can still hear the music—Brahms, I think. I can even hear the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.

“I said take it off.”

I’m an obedient girl. I usually do what I’m told. Especially when it comes from an authority.

Before I can think, I slip the spaghetti straps of the dress down my shoulders, baring my breasts to the cool night air. I can feel my nipples tightening. Their tautness feels like someone is touching them, though Dante hasn’t lifted a hand. Yet.

I drop the dress all the way down to the grass and fallen leaves. Then I step out of it.

“Panties, too,” Dante orders.

My heart is racing. I’ve never been completely naked in front of a man.

I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear and pull that down, too.

Now I’m standing nude except for a pair of heels in a copse of trees in a public park. Anyone could walk by at any time. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my breasts.