HARPER: Pretty Woman was a movie about a sex worker. Are you calling me a sex worker?
HARPER: Because if you are, my rates are much higher than a dress.
I stare at my phone, torn between exasperation and something that feels precariously close to enjoyment.
ME: I'm coming inside the boutique
HARPER: Why??
ME: To ensure the stylist isn't traumatizing you.
HARPER: She's not traumatizing me. She's just very enthusiastic about "statement pieces."
ME: I'm already here.
I push through the boutique doors before she can argue further.
The shift from November cold to boutique warmth is immediate and jarring, a wave of soft amber lighting, cream and gold fixtures, and soft piano music hitting me from every corner.
I’m barely inside two feet, when a woman in head-to-toe black approaches—Simone, according to Gina's notes, the personal stylist to Manhattan's elite.
"Mr. Kade." She extends a perfectly manicured hand. “A pleasure to see you. Welcome in. Your wife is in the fitting room. We're just finalizing options."
"How many options?"
"Seven. She's narrowed it down beautifully."
Seven. For one event.
This is excessive. This is absolutely?—
"Victor?"
I turn.
Harper emerges from behind a curtain, and every coherent thought in my head evaporates.
She's wearing a dress. Obviously, she's wearing a dress—that's why we're here. But this isn't just a dress.
This is a deep silky lavender that makes her skin look like cream, with a neckline that's professional enough for a business event but low enough to make my mouth go dry. It fits her perfectly—skimming her curves, falling to just below her knees, the kind of elegant simplicity that costs a fortune and looks effortless.
Her light chestnut hair is pulled back loosely, showing off her neck and shoulders. She's barefoot, standing on the raised platform in front of a three-way mirror, and she's nervously smoothing down the fabric like she's not sure she's allowed to look this good.
"Too much?" she asks, and her voice is uncertain in a way I've never heard it. Not even that first day in my office when I forced her into this arrangement.
I realize I'm staring.
My brain is completely offline. All I can process is the way the dress moves with her breathing, the nervous way she's biting her lower lip, the way the boutique's soft lighting makes her look like something out of a painting that even my overly wealthy ass would never be able to afford.
"No," I half-cough. "It's... appropriate."
Simone makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh.
Harper's brow furrows. "Appropriate? That's the word you're going with?"
"Professional."
"Still not better."
