This was never going to work. What had I been thinking, coming here? I didn’t belong at Nana’s parties, and I certainly didn’t belong in elegant dresses.
“I’ll think about it,” I told the saleswoman, not even bothering to fake enthusiasm. “Thank you for your help.”
The woman nodded, no doubt relieved she’d gotten rid of me so easily. I couldn’t be bothered to care. I was halfway to the door, already mentally composing a text to Nana about how nothing had fit.
And then someone stepped in my way. “Oh, honey, no. You’re not leaving yet.”
The woman was tall, with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Her asymmetrical haircut wouldn’t have been out of place on a runway model who’d time-traveled from three different decades. Her outfit was an impossible collision of vintage lace and modern leather, all in shades of deep burgundy and black. A choker made of actual Victorian mourning jewelry circled her throat. Multiple rings glinted on her fingers. Her boots seemed to be drowning in buckles.
“That creature just tried to put you in navy blue,” she drawled. Her voice was rich and amused, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. European, maybe? “Navy blue. For a gala. Absolutely criminal.”
“I… what?”Eloquent, Hazel. Really selling the successful business owner image.
“You need something that makes a statement.” She circled me slowly, and I felt myself being assessed again. But this was different from the saleswoman’s clinical inventory of my flaws. This felt like she was seeingsomething underneath. “Something that says you’re not here to fade into the wallpaper. You’re here to be seen.”
My skin prickled under her gaze. “I’m not really a ‘statement’ kind of person.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” She stopped directly in front of me, hands on her hips. “I’ve only just met you, and I can already tell you love to prove a point.”
The observation took my breath away. Not because it was some shocking accusation, but because she was right. I did stand up for myself. Every time I perfected a new recipe, I was saying something about precision and passion. Even with Brok and Barnaby, I’d been the same. I’d had confidence in my craft. I just didn’t translate that confidence to anything involving my actual body.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “What did you have in mind?”
Her smile was pure wickedness. The kind of smile that probably got people in trouble on a regular basis. “Come with me.”
She led me to a completely different section of the store, one the saleswoman had carefully steered me away from. The dresses here were bolder, brighter. They had personality. They had presence. They might actually be fun to wear.
She pulled a dress from the rack, already seeming to vibrate with an anticipation that rivaled Barnaby’s. “Try this.”
The dress was red. Not a tasteful burgundy or a demure wine. It was red like a warning label, like the lipstick I’d never been brave enough to wear.
The neckline plunged in a way that made my breath catch. The fabric would cling to every curve I’d spent my life trying to minimize. Everything about it screamed for attention, making my stomach flip and my pulse race.
“I can’t wear that.”
She held it up against me, tilting her head to study the effect. “Why not?”
“Because I’m… I’m going to a charity gala with my grandmother. And a date who’s a lawyer.” The excuses tumbled out. “My grandmother has opinions about appropriate attire. Strong opinions. Opinions that have made grown men weep.”
“Even better.” She thrust the dress into my hands. The fabric was heavier than I expected, substantial. Quality. “A lawyer needs to be reminded that not everything in life fits into neat little boxes. And your grandmother…” She paused, studying my face with unnerving intensity. “Your grandmother sounds like someone who appreciates power. This dress is power.”
She was right about that too. Nana didn’t respect weakness. She respected strength, even when she disapproved of how it was expressed.
“Trust me,” the woman said, and this time, her voice came out softer. Almost kind. “Try it on.”
I found myself in the dressing room before I could form a coherent argument. On automatic pilot, I pulled off my jeans and unzipped the dress. By now, my hands were shaking, but that didn’t stop me. I stepped into the red dress and pulled it up, half-convinced it wouldn’t even zip.
The fabric settled against my skin as if it had been waiting for me specifically. It felt like every other person who’d tried on this dress had just been keeping it warm until I arrived. The zipper slid up smoothly. I turned to face the mirror.
Oh.
The woman looking back at me was a stranger. She had curves that the dress celebrated rather than concealed. She had skin that glowed against the vibrant red. She looked confident. Powerful. Dangerous, even. Like someone who walked into rooms and commanded attention without having to say a single word.
She looked like someone Brok might actually want to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t be ghosted.
My throat tightened. I blinked rapidly, willing myself not to cry in a dressing room at Maison Élégante. That would really complete the humiliation trifecta.
“Let me see,” the stranger called out from outside the dressing room, snapping me out of my thoughts.
