And then?—
She stepped out.
Oh.
The light caught her like she belonged in it. The dress clung to her in all the wrong ways—wrong for a church, wrong for a virgin, wrong for a man who hadn’t yet decided whether to kiss her or claim her.
Lace spilled over her curves like white fire.
It should’ve looked innocent.
Instead, it looked like a lie.
She didn’t look at me. Not right away.
“What do you think?” she asked, voice too flat, too casual—like it wasn’t loaded with challenge.
I took my time answering.
“It looks better on you than it did on the hanger,” I said, tone low, lazy, lethal.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes like I hadn’t just devoured her with mine.
But she didn’t turn away from the mirror.
No—she shifted. Angled herself.
Admired it.
Her fingers curled at the hem. Like she wanted to tear it. Or maybe hold it tighter.
“I’m not wearing this,” she said, jaw tense, voice tight like the dress was suffocating her.
I stepped closer, grin slow and wicked. “Not yet.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. Fire. Fury. Frustration.
Perfect.
We stood there—one heartbeat away from collision. A stare-off dressed in silk and venom.
She spun and vanished behind the curtain again, lace whispering behind her like a ghost escaping confession.
I let the silence fall again.
Let her simmer.
Because every time she slipped into one of those dresses?
She came out a little closer to belonging to me.
And I planned to enjoy every fitting.
I lounged in a leather chair across the changing room like a god on his throne, one ankle resting over my knee, fingers steepled, watching her unravel one white lie at a time.
Dress after dress.
Each more dramatic than the last.
