“Nuh-uh. We’re not doing that,” he said, his arms folded. “Come on. We’re going to find you something.”
I’d argued, told him he didn’t need to do that. That I didn’t want to make a scene.
He’d grinned like I was speaking a different language. “It’s not a scene, Katie. It’s a dress. And I want to spoil you. Let me.”
So I let him give me myPretty Womanmoment. Reluctantly.
He picked the dress himself. We’d wandered into a boutique in Montreal that smelled of expensive candles and was softly lit in a way that was designed to stop you noticing the price tags. A dress in the window had caught my eye— black velvet on top, satin on the bottom. Fitted, strapless, falling just past my ankle. Understated but devastating. I reached straight for the price tag out of habit, just as a shop assistant appeared with two glasses of champagne, but Jordan caught my wrist and shook his head.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “If you like it, try it.”
I tried it on and emerged from the changing room feeling more exposed than I’d expected. I smoothed my hands down the fabric, ready to say it wasn’t me.
Then I saw his face. His jaw slackened. His eyes dropped to the hem and slowly climbed back up my body.
“Holy shit,” he said quietly, standing like he needed to get closer. “We’re buying it.”
I flushed, half-laughing. “It’s a bit much.”
“No. It’s perfect.You’reperfect.”
He stepped forward and kissed me right there in the middle of the boutique. “That dress is mine now,” he murmured. “Just like you.”
I’d never been looked at like that before. Like I was the prize. Andrew never looked at me that way. He’d ask why I was so dressed up, why I was “trying too hard.” As if wanting to feel beautiful was something to apologise for. Jordan couldn’t be further than that. He wanted me to feel beautiful; he thrived on making me feel incredible, like the world stopped when he looked at me.
Later, as we arrived at the event, the cameras flashed and I did my best not to flinch. Jordan’s hand stayed laced with mine, steady and certain. He made me feel so safe, so protected.
Inside, the room glittered with names I half-recognised. Legends. Rising stars. And women, impossibly glossy women who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a fashion magazine spread. I clung to Maggie like a lifeline.
“Jesus, this is fancy,” I said, scanning the room.
“Yeah,” Maggie laughed, “get used to it, darling. This is your life now.”
God. It still didn’t feel like it, but the night started better than expected. Maggie introduced me to some of the wives she knew. The normal ones. I met the wife of a Scottish player who was funny and gloriously grounded, a former lawyer with a wicked laugh. Jordan rarely left my side, and his hand barely left my arse. I started to feel like maybe I wasn’t completely out of place.
Until I left to use the loo.
On the way there, I passed a group of girls who were model-thin, all legs, glossy hair, and pouty lips. They couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
“She’s pretty…that one Jordan’s brought,” one said, her voice laced with a bite. “But notthatpretty. He could’ve done better.”
Another one laughed. “The last one was stunning. This one’s giving…therapist with benefits.”
I didn’t stop. Just kept walking, head down, pulse pounding in my ears. I shoved the toilet door harder than necessary, eyes already burning, and locked myself into the nearest stall. I sat down hard on the lid, hands shaking.
“Fuuuuuck,” I hissed under my breath, furious at the sting behind my eyes.
This. This was exactly why I didn’t belong here. Hearing out loud the thoughts I’d been trying to keep buried, spoken by the very people I already felt threatened by? It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. God, it did.
The words cut deep. Just when I’d started to believe I wasn’t some novelty or fling, this had to happen. A reminder that I could be temporary. Or worse…forgettable.
I stood, forced a breath, and unlocked the stall. Wiped away the one tear that escaped. Fixed my lipstick. Stared myself down in the mirror.
“Fuck them,” I whispered angrily.
I took a deep, steadying breath. Then I plastered on a smile. Walked out like nothing had happened. Pushed through the rest of the night and said nothing. But the pull in my stomach wouldn’t ease. That sick, twisting certainty that I wasn’t good enough to be seen with him.
I slipped back to the table and eased into my seat like nothing had happened. I kept my eyes down, because if I looked at anyone, I might’ve burst into tears. The clink of cutlery, the hum of polite conversation, it all felt suddenly too loud. Too bright. My food was still warm, but untouched. I pushed it around my plate, willing my heart to settle.
