Why would he show up now, after all these years? How would he even find us? After we saved Cat and Aaron, Ewan extracted me like I was never there.
But there have been times when Henri's accent disappears.
And then there's the way he looked at Hale in the nursery. Cataloging every detail of my son's face with a deep intensity, like he was looking at something that belonged to him.
"Hair up or down?"
"Up. He likes her neck visible."
He likes her neck visible.
I file that phrase away with all the others. The small humiliations that remind me I'm not even in charge of my own hair in this house. I'm a curated image designed to communicate one thing: look what I own and control.
"Arms up."
I lift my arms.
Margot slides the tape measure around my ribs, then to my waist. She's done this dozens of times, but she always measures again.
I should be here for this. Pay attention so I can make sure Ewan stays happy for the next couple of days, but my mind keeps drifting.
Every time I try, I see gray eyes where brown should be. I hear a voice without the French accent, rough with promise. I feel phantom hands sliding up my thighs and a mouth against my ear, whispering everything I've been dying to hear.
"You've lost weight." Margot's voice cuts through the spiral. "The dress will need to be taken in."
"I'll handle it," Elise says, pulling out a sewing kit.
I stand very still while they work around me, prodding and adjusting, voices dissecting my body like it belongs to them. The red fabric is heavy in Margot's hands.
"Pay attention. I need you to step into the dress now."
I blink. "Of course. Sorry."
She rolls her eyes, hating every bit of this as I step into the dress. I try not to think about Tristan or Henri as they pull the material up over my hips, my ribs, my breasts. The dress is cold against my skin, a silk cage closing around me.
Margot surveys her work. "Turn."
I turn.
"Again."
In the mirror, I catch Elise watching me. She looks confused—and maybe a bit concerned. I hold her gaze, refusing to break first. When she draws in a breath, pity fills her eyes.
I don't want her sympathy. I want her to stop looking at me like I'm a cautionary tale she'll share over drinks with her friends.
"The neckline needs adjusting," Margot announces, reaching for her pins. Elise looks away. "And we'll need to do something about those circles under her eyes. She looks exhausted. It's not attractive."
I am exhausted. I've been exhausted.
But I don't say anything, standing there while they pin and tuck and discuss my flaws like items on a repair list for a house they don't own.
Margot gets to leave when this is over. Back to Paris. Drink champagne and sleep in a bed she bought. Elise gets to go home to an apartment with her name on the lease. Kiss someone who doesn't own her. Make plans for a future she thinks she controls.
I get to wear the dress.
Lucky fucking me.
The fitting lasts two hours.
