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The designer—Elle. One name only, thank you very much—dressed me for me.

And after I looked her up?

Holy shit.

World-renowned doesn't even begin to cover it. Celebrities. Royalty. Red carpets. Magazine covers. Women whose dresses get their own headlines the morning after an awards show.

Yeah.

When Elle told me I had a magnificent figure, I may have replayed that particular compliment a few dozen times in my head.

But the point is, she dressed me for me.

And holy fuck, did she ever.

The gown is the most beautiful thing I have ever put on my body.

Deep emerald green.

Structured through the bodice in a way that doesn't try to flatten my breasts or hide them but somehow makes them look freaking phenomenal. The waist hugs me before the fabric falls over my hips in a way that makes me feel lush instead of large.

Elegant.

Sexy.

Expensive.

Beautiful.

I feel beautiful.

There.

I said it.

And I'm not talking about pretty for a bigger girl or any of that backhanded bullshit.

I look fucking fantastic.

I knew it before Mitchell ever saw me. But his face when he did?

Yeah.

We're so not thinking about that right now.

Except I am.

Because Mitchell walked back into the boutique exactly one hour later, dressed in an immaculate tux, and when glanced up from his phone, he stopped dead.

Actually stopped with his foot midair.

Mitchell Knight—the man I’ve watched juggle billion-dollar companies without blinking—just fucking froze.

His eyes traveled over me once before coming back to my face, and I swear those icy blue eyes lit up like flames.

Blue fire.

And it was all for me.