It’s sleeveless, the bust adorned with a delicate illusion neckline set with micro-lace and scattered crystal appliqués that catch the light like embers. The fabric cascades from a fitted waist in a waterfall of white silk organza with a subtle golden iridescence woven through the weave, at certain angles the gown reads as cool, pearlescent ice, under other lights it shimmers like molten gold. A narrow, sculpted bodice sculpts the torso, while layers of diaphanous skirt tumble into soft waves. Tiny hand-embroidered flames, worked in silver and pale gold thread, lick up from the hem and dissolve into the silk as they climb, literally fire on ice.
I trail my fingertips across the fabric. It’s more breathtaking in person than in any digital mockup, I wish Wen and Lyn were here instead of at the venue, they were in awe when I showed them the render, but this physical form renders the screen pale by comparison.
Iana’s honeyed voice reaches my ear. “Mr. Bennett, I would like to design something for you. You’re a muse for designers.” The compliment hangs in the air like sugar, and my joy at seeing my dream dress threatens to spill to the floor.
I turn to give her a final answer about staying away from him, but he speaks first. “Give her the dress to try and leave.”
She nods, smiling awkwardly, and moves toward the gown. She lifts it from the mannequin and hands it to me. I take it and step into the fitting room. Wait, what if she doesn’t leave? I can’t let such a beautiful woman linger near him, especially one who’s constantly flirting.
I turn to call her to come with me for help, but she’s already at Zoan’s side. My eyes narrow. She wants to die by my hands.
“Mr. Bennett…” she begins, voice syrupy.
“Leave,” he says, not even glancing at her.
Finally, she leaves, and I close the door. I undress and step into the gown. Despite its fairytale flare, it’s surprisingly lightweight, I could even sleep in it.
With some effort, I close the hidden zipper at the back and twirl. Wow. This is the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever worn. Alright, I say that about every dress, but this one is truly stunning.
I open the fitting-room door and step out. No one is here to approve my look, just a man who gives zeroconsideration to what I wear. Or at least that’s what I think… until I see his face.
The designer deserves an award for making Zloban Bennett react. A small lift of his brow and the tiniest parting of his lips—Zoan’s version of someone shouting “Oh my God!” with hands over their mouth.
He comes closer, his gaze tracing me from head to toe. I stay rooted in the doorway, not that I could move with knees threatening to give way. Getting his approval like this awakens every sense in me, as if new neurons are firing alive beneath my skin.
His fingers brush the dress just over the décolletage, where the sleeveless fabric begins below the neck and hugs the bust. My body interprets it as if he were touching me directly, and a shiver races down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“Don’t wear it,” he says, his eyes locking with mine.
“Why?”
“You’re looking so beautiful, I’d have to kill the man standing at the altar.”
His gaze drifts down once more. I can feel sweat forming under his scorching stare, the last thing I want staining this dress.
“Sorry, dearest brother, but I will wear this dress, and you’ll be there, sitting, watching me marry someone else in it,” I deliver the jealousy-laden line with a smile, slidinginto the room and closing the door behind me. I take deep breaths, trying to temper the effect of his eyes on me.
A knock echoes at the door. Then another.
I open it. Zoan enters, closing the door behind him. The dose of jealousy seems to hit him harder than I expected. He moves forward with a speed I barely register, and with a sharp snap, two pieces of Fire on Ice tear and fall at my feet. I’m frozen, in shock at the destruction of my dream gown, when he grabs me by the waist, pressing me flush against his chest.
“First, I’m not your brother. Second, you will not wear that dress.”
I glare at him. I want to shout and punch him, but I’m restrained from doing either. I can’t exactly shout to the world that I’m in a changing room with my brother, calling him a motherfucker. I press my hands to his shoulders to pull away, but he’s holding me so tightly his palms will leave prints on my waist.
“You shouldn’t have torn my dress.”
I shove at him again, this time he lets me go. As I step back, his eyes trail slowly over my exposed upper body, my own body betrays me, shivering at the look. He reaches out, sliding his thumb under the curve of my breast. My nipples harden further until they ache.
“Stop playing with me,” he says in rough voice, and turns away.
I grit my teeth and pull my clothes on. I’ll have to order the dress again.
After checking Roxion’s suit and offering the excuse about the imperfect fit, Satan himself—Zloban—escorts me to his car. Because he chased the designer off, I didn’t get to see her again. When the attendant asked about the dress, this devil answered for me. “We don’t need that dress.”
I open my phone as the car pulls away and load the designer’s website to place the order again, this time, home delivery.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
