“I figured,” he says simply. “There are other outfits planned out.”
Of course, there are. I bite my lip, frustrated and not sure why. I don’t miss the way Alex’s eyes drop to my lips, then flick back up to meet my gaze.
“I still don’t understand why you want me at this dinner,” I say, barely audible.
“Because I want you there. With me,” comes his reply
The words hit something deep.
With me.
The question— you want me there as your what?—curls at the edge of my tongue, but it never makes it out. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Not when the air between us feels suddenly thin. I notice I’m leaning close towards him, and the only thing demarcating us is the back seat console in the middle.
My heart skips. I look away quickly, heat rushing up my face. I lean back into my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we were. Given that there are people in this car. Oh, how badly I want to keep looking at him. I turn my head toward the window and press my palm against my thigh to steady myself.
After thirty minutes of absolute quiet, the car slows in front of a sleek glass building, all curves and gold-lettered elegance. I squint at the logo as we step out, then almost let out a gasp. This is my dream brand, I’ve stalked their page and lookbooks online more times than I’ll admit. Every drop of a new collection feels unique and has a classic American soft style. Their leather jackets are to die for.
We walk through the tall doors, and before I can take in much of the showroom, a tall man in black silk and sharp cheekbones greets us with a polished smile and gestures for us to follow him.
“We’ve prepared the VIP suite, Mr. Petrov,” he says, nodding at Alex. “As always.”
We’re led up a private elevator and then into a room that looks like it belongs in a fashion magazine. It’s quiet. The lighting is soft and warm, bouncing off velvet drapes and gold fixtures. The walls are an elegant cream, and the floor glows with polished wood. A glass table in the middle of the room holds a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket, flutes lined beside it, and a tray of delicate desserts.
The man who led us up here turns to me with a dazzling grin. He’s young, maybe in his late twenties, and wears the kind of layered fit that looks effortless but clearly isn’t.
“You must be Lucas,” he says, his tone warm, almost sing-song. “I am Stephan, your personal shopper for today, and I’ve been briefed about your preferences and Mr. Petrov’s instructions.”
Briefed?
From the corner of my eyes, I see Alex sinking into a low cream-colored cushion, his legs stretched, his expression unreadable. Ashley takes a seat beside him, tapping something into her tablet.
“Would you like a glass of champagne before we start?” Stephan asks
I shake my head
“Alright,” he says with a smile, “let’s begin fitting.”
Stephan leads me toward a long gold rack on the other side of the room.
“These are your selections. We went wide with the style spectrum—leather jackets, classic wool blazers, polos, silks, fitted trousers, layered knits… You name it.”
My eyes widen. There’s so much.
Row after row of beautifully tailored clothes, all hanging like art. Some pieces I would die to own. Others feel too bold, toosharp, too… not me. But they’re all exquisite. I run my fingers across a navy sweater that feels like clouds, then a structured black blazer that could swallow me whole.
“And shoes are just over there,” Stephan adds, pointing to a wall of pristine footwear—boots, loafers, polished lace-ups, even sneakers that probably cost more than my rent.
“Fitting room’s right in the corner. Three-way mirror, good lighting, promise,” he says with a wink before gliding away to give me space.
My fingers land on a slim black zip-up jacket, leather with silver detailing, and I let out a slow breath, this had been on my wish list for months, not that I could afford it anyway; the last time I checked, it was about $4k.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to act in a place like this. I don’t understand why Alex is doing this, what he’s trying to prove, or if he’s even trying to prove anything. But something in me stirs, an ache in my chest I can’t quite name.
I turn back, catching his eyes across the room. He’s watching me, still and silent like always.
***
I step out of the fitting room wearing a navy jacket with dark slacks. The shirt underneath is a bit too stiff for my liking, and the pants cling in places that make me uncomfortable. Still, I walk out and let myself be seen.
