The hairstylist had hitched my hair to one side with twisted crochet braids, but I’d never seen it with so much volume, shine, and definition. Tight curls framed my face perfectly.
The makeup artist had a light hand, following Natasha’s instructions to highlight my cheekbones and lips. A wash of gold dusted my eyelids, paired with perfectly winged eyeliner. It matched the darkness of my eyes—and I loved it, because it reminded me of Bouda’s.
“Those are real diamonds on your dress,” Natasha whispered.
I gasped, my gaze dropping to the bodice.
The dress was gold—not brash or garish, but a deep, molten shade that looked poured rather than sewn. The bodice was structured and close, moulded to my torso as if it had been designed with my body in mind, not the other way around. Diamonds were scattered across it in deliberate patterns—dense at the waist and bust, thinning as they descended—each one catching the light and throwing it back in sharp, controlled flashes.
The neckline framed my collarbones and cleavage without apology. My skin glowed against the warmth of the gold, the contrast making the gems look brighter, sharper. Powerful. The fitted waist flared just enough to acknowledge my curves before the fabric softened, the skirt falling in lighter layers that skimmed over my bump rather than concealing it.
Nothing was hidden.
Nothing was exaggerated.
The diamonds grew sparser over the skirt, as if yielding to what lay beneath—my body, my children—allowing the fabric to drape instead of cling. It moved when I did, whispering rather than rustling, catching the light with every shift of my hips.
I stared at my reflection, one hand instinctively resting on my belly.
This was Blaidd’s carefully curated statement to the world.
Date night, my ass.
Natasha draped a matching thin gold scarf around my neck, letting the ends fall down my back. She clicked her fingers.
“Get her shoes on,” she snapped.
I shook my head, feeling my curls bounce. Natasha had arranged for the girls to use Her Glow products—only the eye patches and face mask were from another brand.
While Blaidd made his statement, I could use it to my company’s advantage—if he went through the guest list with me.
Natasha guided me into the chair, and when I tried to reach for the peep-toe shoes, she scolded me sharply.
“You’ll crease the dress.”
She leaned back, appraising her work.
“Mm. Keep my contact details handy—I’ll be helping you choose your wedding dress,” she said with a satisfied smile.
“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a wedding.”
“No one goes to this much effort for a short-lived entanglement,” she scoffed—just as the bedroom door opened.
Blaidd must have used another room to get ready. He’d gone full black-tie. His dark hair was carefully combed back, the white shirt almost blinding beneath the perfectly positioned bow tie. Another designer suit—one that screamed wealth and vanity.
But it worked for him.
“This isn’t very professional of me,” Natasha said, already lifting her phone,“but I need a picture of you both. You need to see the full effect.”
“Use mine,” Blaidd said, though his eyes never left me.
She took his phone, checked the lighting, then positioned us near the chaise longue.
I kept my breathing steady when the warmth of his hand settled at my waist.
Natasha snapped several photos, shifting angles and poses until I finally shot her a glare.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered, handing the phone back to Blaidd.
