"These clothes are already—"
"Inadequate." His thumb traces circles on my hip through the silk, making my pulse race despite myself. The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric like a brand. "Maria chose poorly. These make you like a child playing dress-ups. We have an appointment at Celeste's in an hour."
What he doesn't know is that I am a child playing dress-ups. He couldn't have nailed a more perfect description, although I can hardly admit to that.
The woman in the mirror, Frances Rosetti, whoever she is, nods obediently while Emma screams inside the cage of her skin. I've learned this about Alessandro in four days of marriage: his gentleness is just velvet wrapped around steel. When he guides me from the room, his hand never leaving my back, I resist the urge to lean into his touch. My body's betrayal is becoming harder to fight each day.
"I don't need—"
"What you need," he interrupts, voice gentle but final, "is to look like a Rosetti. The blue dress from yesterday was acceptable for family dinner. Today, we fix the rest."
There's no room for argument in his tone.
Two maids giggle in the hallway, immediately straightening when they see Alessandro. One bites her lip, the other flushes red. "Mr.Rosetti," they chorus, and he winks as he passes, making one actually squeak. He doesn't even pause in his conversation with me—this is just breathing for him.
When we reach the car, his driver already waiting, Alessandro's hand slides lower on my back, fingers splaying possessively. The touch sends unwanted heat through my limbs, my body recognizing its owner even as my mind rebels.
"You know, most women would kill to be in your position," he says to me in the car. "Well, not literally—that's more my department. But you look at me like you're planning my funeral. It's oddly endearing."
I have no words, so I just keep quiet and look at the passing scenery, waiting to reach the store. And when we do, I almost miss it.
The boutique on Michigan Avenue doesn't even have a sign, just crystal doors that reflect the morning light like a promise of transformation I don't want. Alessandro's driver opens our door, and immediately I spot them: photographers across the street, cameras ready, vultures circling fresh meat.
"Don't worry about them," Alessandro murmurs, his grip tightening on my waist as he pulls me against his side. The solid warmth of his body makes me feel safer than I should. "The last photographer who got too close to a Rosetti wife disappeared. They remember."
The casual mention of violence makes my blood chill even as his proximity makes it heat.
Inside, the air smells of roses, nothing like the lemon polish and dust of my former life. A woman in her forties glides toward us, her smile bright enough to blind, her heels clicking against marble that I once would have been scrubbing.
"Mr.Rosetti, what an absolute pleasure. I'm Vivian. We've closed the entire store for your appointment, as requested." Her eyes shift to me, taking in everything from my simple dress to my nervous hands. "And this must be the new Mrs.Rosetti. How wonderful to finally meet you."
The name stings. Mrs.Rosetti. That's who I am now, the only identity that matters in this world of silk and blood.
"Oh, we cleared our schedule immediately when we heard," Vivian continues, then catches Alessandro's sharp look and trails off. "That is… we're honored to serve the Rosetti family."
"Champagne?" Another woman appears with crystal flutes on a silver tray.
"My wife prefers to focus," Alessandro says, waving her away. His black card appears in his hand like a magic trick, passed to Vivian with casual authority. No limit, his eyes say. Whatever it takes. "We'll need everything. Day wear, evening wear, lingerie." His eyes find mine at that last word, dark with promise. "She needs a complete wardrobe."
"Of course. We have the latest collections from Paris and Milan set aside. If you'll follow me?"
The private showing room has mirrors on three walls, nowhere to hide from my transformation, and a velvet setteethat Alessandro sinks into like a king claiming his throne. I stand in the center, feeling exposed despite being fully clothed, while Vivian's assistants wheel in rack after rack of clothing.
"Let's start with day wear," Alessandro says, his eyes never leaving me. The weight of his gaze makes my skin prickle with awareness. "Something that makes her look innocent."
Innocent. As if I could ever be that again, standing here pretending to be Frances while my body learns to want the man who owns me.
I watch Alessandro settle deeper into the velvet settee, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, tracking every movement as Vivian holds up dress after dress. He dismisses most with a slight shake of his head, selecting others with a raised finger. Never asking my opinion. Never looking at price tags. Each selection feels like another lie, another step away from Emma.
"This green would complement—" I start, trying to assert some control over who I'm becoming.
"The blue," he cuts in smoothly, not even glancing at the green. "Trust me, cara. I know what suits my wife."
The possessive pronoun makes something flutter in my chest.
The first outfit is a powder blue dress in fabric so fine it feels weightless against my skin. Vivian helps me into it in the changing room, her hands efficient and cold. The silk slides against my skin like cool water, too fine, too soft, nothing like the rough cotton of my servant's uniform.
When I emerge, Alessandro's eyes darken, traveling from my throat to my hem with an intensity that makes my skin burn. The boutique's air conditioning raises goosebumps on my arms, but his gaze feels like fire, like being stripped naked despite the expensive fabric covering me.
