The manager appears immediately, a blonde, sharp, forty-something. Expensive suit, polished heels—the whole aesthetic. Her smile is professional, but I can see the calculation behind it. She’s already measuring potential sales, tallying commissions.
"Mr. Petrov." She extends her hand and doesn’t wait for me to respond. "We’ve prepared a selection as requested."
"Show her everything."
"Everything?" Lila’s voice shoots higher than normal. "Ivan, that’s?—"
"Crazy?" I supply, turning on her with a faint smirk. "Yes. And yes. That’s why it works."
I glance back at the manager. "Whatever she doesn’t choose," I add, "goes to women’s shelters. Make sure they know it’s from the future Mrs.?Petrov."
The manager blinks, just a fraction, before composing herself. "Of course. We’ll arrange the donation immediately."
Lila stares at me, wide-eyed. I can feel her trying to reconcile the image of a man like me doling out designer labels to survivors of abuse. She doesn’t get it yet. Doesn’t see that power is about choosing your contradictions, making the impossible fit together.
"This way," the manager says, leading us deeper into the store. We pass racks of silk and leather. Pass mannequins dressed in pieces worth more than cars.
Lila's hand finds mine and squeezes.
I squeeze back in a wordless ‘You're safe.’
The dressing area is private, curtained off with mirrors everywhere. A velvet couch where I can sit and watch. A table with champagne already poured.
The manager starts pulling dresses. "These just arrived from Milan. And these are from the Paris runway. This one—" She holds up a black, backless piece. "This was custom-made for a Russian countess, but she canceled the order. It should fit perfectly."
Lila touches the fabric. Her fingers hesitate. "How much is this?"
"Don't ask that question here." I settle onto the couch. "Try it on."
"But—"
"Try it on."
She disappears behind the curtain. The manager hovers, eager to help. More so eager to secure a sale.
"Give us space," I tell her.
"Of course." She backs away. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."
Finally, I’m alone. Just me, the champagne I won't drink, and the sound of fabric rustling behind curtains.
"It won't zip," Lila calls out a moment later.
"Need help?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." A pause. "This is harder than it looks."
I smile and move toward the curtain. "I'm coming in."
"Wait—"
It’s too late. I'm already pushing through.
She’s half-dressed in black silk, the fabric twisted around her back. She’s wrestling with the zipper, muttering under her breath, irritation etched across her face.
"Here," I say, stepping in. I find the zipper and pull it up slowly. My knuckles graze her spine, and she shivers.
The dress molds to her perfectly.
