With the dress in place, she studies herself in the mirror quietly. "This isn’t me."
I take a step closer. "It is tonight."
She frowns. "I don’t know how tobethis person."
"Lila, you will." I rest my hands lightly on her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the glass. "You watch. You learn. You fake it until it feels real."
"Is that what you did?"
The question lands deeper than she knows. "Yeah," I say after a beat. "Every day since my father died."
She turns slightly, eyes searching mine in the reflection. "Do you miss him?"
"Sometimes." I let out a breath. "Mostly, I miss the certainty. He always knew what move came next." My fingers trace the strap on her shoulder. "Me? I’m improvising."
"You don’t seem like you are."
I smirk faintly. "That’s the trick. Confidence isn’t truth—it’s camouflage."
She leans back against me, just enough that I can feel her weight. Trust, small but real. "I see you doubt," she whispers.
"I know."
"Doesn’t that scare you?"
"Every damn day." I press a kiss to her temple, then nod toward the racks. "Now go find another dress before I start improvising something else entirely."
The manager brings ten more. Then twenty. Colors and cuts and fabrics that blur together. Lila tries them all, emerging from the curtain in each one looking more uncertain than the last.
Finally, she leaves the dressing room in something blue. The color accentuates her eyes. She’s utterly captivating.
She catches me staring, smiles slightly, then disappears back inside.
I settle onto the couch and check my phone. Emails from captains I'm ignoring. Messages about territory. Disputes I'll deal with later. None of it matters right now.
The manager hovers nearby. "Is there anything else?—"
"Privacy," I tell her.
Voices drift in from the main floor. Another couple.
I glance at my watch. The boutique should be ours for another thirty minutes, but these places sometimes double-book when the first client runs long.
The manager appears, flustered. "Mr. Petrov, I apologize—they had an appointment, and I thought you'd be finished?—"
The woman's voice cuts through. Flat. Deadpan. "It's awful."
"Awful? Come on, tell me how you really feel?—"
"Objectively awful. Look at it—too tight, makes me look like a Disney princess."
The man laughs. "Honestly? I can’t argue with that."
I stand and walk toward the sound, ready to have them removed. This is supposed to be a private experience.
But when I round the corner, I see them—a blonde in casual luxury, the man in a suit that fits too well to be off-the-rack. Old money. Have to be. They're standing in front of mirrors. He’s holding a shirt, and she systematically destroys every choice he makes.
Most people here keep their disagreements private. Smile for the staff. Maintain appearances. These two don't seem to care who hears them.
