"Correct."
I look at the racks again.
At the silk and velvet and satin.
At the price tags I'm deliberately not reading because I'm pretty sure seeing a five-figure number attached to a single garment will trigger some kind of psychological break.
"Right," I say. "Cool. Totally normal. This is fine."
Isolde's expression doesn't change.
"If you would step onto the platform, please."
She gestures to a circular pedestal in the center of the room, positioned in front of a three-way mirror that's probably taller than Cyprian.
I walk over.
Climb onto the platform.
And immediately feel like an imposter.
Seventy-two hours ago, I was sitting in my drafty apartment eating ramen and staring at eviction notices. I owned one pair of work-appropriate slacks, three massage therapy polos, and a single dress from Target that had a coffee stain on the hem because I spilled my travel mug on the way to a wedding two years ago.
Now I'm standing on a pedestal in a penthouse wardrobe suite while a woman who looks like she personally dresses European royalty circles me with a tape measure.
The cognitive dissonance isstaggering.
"Arms out, please," Isolde says.
I comply.
She measures my shoulders. My bust. My waist. My hips.
She doesn't speak.
Doesn't make small talk.
Just measures with mechanical precision, her pale eyes flicking over my body like I'm a mannequin.
"You have an athletic build," she says finally. "Compact. Well-proportioned. The gown will need to emphasize your natural strength while maintaining elegance."
"Uh. Thanks?"
"It is an observation, not a compliment."
"Right. Obviously."
She moves to the first rack and pulls out a gown.
It's black.
Not regular black.
Obsidianblack.
The kind of black that seems to absorb light, that shifts and shimmers with every movement like liquid stone.
The fabric is silk—impossibly smooth, impossibly soft—and it's cut in a sleek, form-fitting silhouette that looks like it was designed by someone who understands exactly how fabric moves against skin.
