I don't know why. Don't know when I started caring what they think, when their opinions began to matter more than my own comfort or common sense.
But I do care. More than I should.
A saleswoman approaches, perfectly dressed and perfectly made up, her smile professional but cold. Like she's calculated exactly how much commission I'm worth and found the number disappointing. "Do you need assistance?"
"I'm looking for a dress," I say, trying to sound confident, trying to belong in a space where I clearly don't. "I'm going to Obsidian tonight."
"Of course." Her smile stays in place, frozen and artificial. "We have a section for evening wear that would be perfect."
She pauses, her gaze sliding past me to Erion. Her expression shifts, becomes harder, more judgmental, upper lip curling just slightly in distaste.
"Could you ask your bodyguard to wait outside?" Her voice is loud enough for him to hear. "He's making some of our other clients uncomfortable."
I feel Erion go still behind me. Feel the shift in his energy from relaxed to coiled tight, dangerous in a way that makes the air feel thinner.
I turn to look at him. See the mix of fury and hurt flash across his face before he locks it down, burying it under the kind of blank expression that comes from years of practice hiding pain.
"I'll be right outside," he says to me. His voice is controlled, flat, every emotion stripped away until there's nothing left but emptiness. "Take your time."
No.
Anger rises in me. Hot and immediate and absolutely done with people like this woman who think they can judge others based on appearances, who think money buys them the right to be cruel.
I turn to the saleswoman, keeping my voice low so only she can hear, stepping closer to make sure she understands every single word. "He'snotmy bodyguard.."
I pause, let that sink in, watch her expression start to shift as she realizes she's miscalculated.
"That Lamborghini parked outside? That's his. He's a business partner with the owner of Obsidian. So if your wages depend on commission, you're making a big mistake. Big. Huge."
I've always wanted a Pretty Woman moment. I just didn't think it would be like this.
The saleswoman's face goes pale, then red, color flooding her cheeks as reality sets in. "I apologize." The words come out quickly, stumbling over themselves. To me first. Then to Erion. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Take us to the evening wear section," I say. My voice is firm, final, leaving no room for argument or excuses.
She nods, leads us through the store with jerky movements that betray her discomfort.
I thank her when we reach the dresses, putting just enough ice in my tone to make my point. "We'll call if we need anything."
It's a dismissal. She understands. Leaves quickly, her heels clicking against the marble as she retreats.
Erion looks at me. His expression has changed completely, the hurt buried under something else now. Something warm. Proud. The kind of look that makes my chest tighten and my breath catch.
"That was sexy as fuck," he says, voice rough and entirely too sincere.
Heat floods my face, spreading down my neck, making my skin feel too tight. I turn away, start looking through the dresses to hide my reaction, to give myself something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for him.
My hands keep going to safe choices. Black dresses that blend into the background. Navy that won't draw attention. Simple cuts that hide instead of highlight, that help me disappear rather than be seen.
I'm a little chubby.
It's hard to choose something that flatters when you spend most of your time tasting food, testing recipes. The problem is I eat it too. And the evidence shows in the softness of my stomach, the fullness of my thighs, the way clothes never quite fit the way they do on other women.
I'm spiraling, caught in the loop of old criticism and current insecurity.
Erion appears beside me, holding a dress.
Red. Short. Strapless. The fabric crosses over the chest and ties in a small bow at the side, the cut designed to emphasize curves rather than hide them.
