“The dress will be ready within an hour after you choose,” the woman says, pride in her voice. “We can most certainly find you something beautiful before then.”
Oh, so this is for rich rich people then. I don’t know what it’s like to be in this tax bracket. I almost feel like a secret agent stealing expensive secrets. Is this why rich people always look so put together? Their clothing is tailored to them?
We’re led back to the dressing “chamber,” and I try my best not to look around with wide eyes at the room. Chamber isn’t an understatement or just some fancy word to replace room. In the center of the room is a platform clearly meant for the person trying on clothes to stand. Plush couches and armchairs sit around it, like the platform is meant to display a work of art. An area in the back is closed off by a curtain, but the woman appears with a handful of dresses in a few different shades of red and shoves the curtain back. She hangs the dresses on the hooks and looks over at me expectantly.
“Oh. Right.” I follow her and she closes the curtain behind us.
“Everything off but your panties,” she instructs. When I hesitate, she touches the dresses. “A bra will ruin the fitting. These aren’t made to wear with one, and the harshness of a bra will only create unwanted lines.” She looks me up and down. “We’re both women, sweetheart. I can promise it’s nothing I haven’t seen before and I’ll turn my back while you shimmy into the dresses. I’m only hear to zip you and clamp the dress so you can see how it’ll look.”
As promised, she turns away once I get down to my bra and panties. Once facing away, I do as she says and remove the bra, holding my hands over my chest while she hands me a prepared dress without looking. Despite my shyness and her initial look when I’d first walked into the store, she’s nothing but professional now as she helps me into a form fitting silk dress before she clips it at my lower back to make sure we get an idea of the fit. I blink in surprise at the woman in the mirror. I hadn’t worn any makeup or done my hair because, why would I do that just to try something on? But in this dress, I don’t even feel like I need it. It stands on its own.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“Red is definitely your color,” she nods. “Should we show him this one?”
I nod and she throws open the curtain and helps me out to the platform. I avoid looking at Dagen until I’m balanced there before the mirrors, but I purposely look away from them, facing Dagen instead. Only once I take a deep breath do I look up.
Dagen Fox is a force to be reckoned with on any given day. His eyes are always steadfast when he’s doing business. He rarely looks anything but put together. But when I meet his eyes while wearing this red dress, there’s something else there, not surprise, not business, but. . . hunger.
“What do you think?” I ask, holding out my arms and giving a small twirl.
“I think. . .” He glances at the other woman. “I’m going to need a shirt to match.”
“That can absolutely be arranged,” she smiles. She whistles and a man appears from another doorway. A tape measure hangs around his neck, and he wears a fanny pack on his hips. “Leonardo will get all your measurements and get to work on the tailoring. This will only take a few minutes.”
“Shouldn’t I try on something else?” I ask, blushing at the way he looks at me.
“No need,” Dagen says. “This is the one.” To the woman who helped me, he adds, “You’re very good at your job.”
The woman beams under his compliment and somehow gets even more professional as she tsks and gestures to me. “It’s an easy job with beauty like this.”
How strange to stand here like a work of art before them, as they discuss my beauty. My hands start to creep up, the urge to cover myself strong, but I don’t get the opportunity. Leonardo appears with a harsh, “Arms out,” and I do as I’m told.
Leonardo doesn’t say anything else as he gets to work moving around me, using his tape measure and marking the dress with little pins. Just as the woman says, it only takes a few minutes before he bows his head and disappears.
“Let’s get you out of this dress,” the woman says, but Dagen stands.
“I’ll take care of that,” he says.
The woman nods, smiling at him. “I’ll be at the front whenever you’re ready. Just hang the dress on the hook in there and we’ll have it ready for you soon.”
She disappears and I flush at the look Dagen shoots me. He offers me a hand and I take it without hesitation, letting him assist me off the platform. My feet are bare as I pad across the thick carpet back to the curtained off area where my regular old clothes wait. He closes the thick curtain behind us as we enter before turning to look at me.
“You look. . .” He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite find the words. “Beautiful feels inadequate.”
I flush and smooth my hands down the pretty silk. “It’s the dress. It?—”
“No,” he interrupts, stepping forward. He lifts my chin with his fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. “It’s the woman wearing it that I’m talking about.”
The breath rushes from my body. “Oh,” is all I can manage as I stare at him.
Dagen Fox is a pretty man. Everything down to his long lashes framing his perfect eyes is designed to perfection. I can’t imagine what he sees in me, a regular mom covered in reminders of her past trauma.
“You don’t think it shows too many of my scars?” I ask.
The dress has a low back, which means many of my scars are on full display. Small, raised lines, puckered burns, little blemishes here and there peek from the edges of the dress and will probably draw people’s eyes. There will be no denying what’s been done to me, not when the evidence of knives and cigarettes mar my skin. Part of me wants to cover them up, to pretend they’re not there, but they’re a part of me now. I can’t change them anymore than I can change my eye color. It’s who I am.
“I think you look like a warrior,” he murmurs. His hands stroke up my arms, trailing along the scars there, as if to make sure I believe him. “A fierce warrior come to seek revenge on her enemies.” He reaches for the fastenings of my dress. “Deadly. Fierce. Dressed in the color of blood.”
