The fabric is heavier, silkier, cut to fall clean and elegant instead of trying too hard. The straps are delicate. The back dips low. It’s grown up in every way the first dress wasn’t.
Like us.
My fingers rise to the fabric almost reverently.
“You remembered.”
He leans one shoulder against the wardrobe and watches me touch it.
“I remember everything.”
My throat tightens.
Beside it are sandals—strappy, fine, perfect. The heel isn’t tiny, but it isn’t cruel either. Designed by someone who understands the difference between women who merely stand and women who have to move.
Athlete heels.
I laugh softly under my breath because apparently Tristan Vale found me a dress and shoes that respect my vertical range.
He hears it.
“What?”
I glance back at him.
“Even in heels, I’ll still be shorter than you.”
His eyes drag slowly over me from head to toe, taking in my long legs, my shoulders, my body built for power instead of delicacy.
Then he steps in close, one hand settling at my waist.
“Good,” he says.
I blink.
“Good?”
He nods once, like this should be obvious.
“You’ve never needed to feel petite for me.” His thumb strokes lightly against my side. “You’re not built to disappear, Stella.”
The words hit somewhere deep and old and sore.
Lord, knows men have always noticed me, but noticed is not the same as understood. Most of them wanted me softened.
Smaller.
Less direct.
Less tall.
Less athletic.
Less myself.
Tristan never has.
Even when he was stupid.
