I dig for my phone with clumsy fingers. The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak, but I hit the number anyway.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Rowan.”
The sound of his name nearly cracks me open. “I can’t do this,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool mirror. “They’re looking at me like I don’t belong here, like I should be pawing through clearance racks with my dog hair and student loans. Can I just… can I just go to Target instead?”
There’s a beat of silence. The kind where I know he’s already calculating, already plotting.
Then, flat and unbothered, “Fuck ‘em.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds way too close to a sob. “Oh, perfect. Life advice from Rowan King: just tell the crippling insecurity to fuck off. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re dramatizing.”
“Am I?” My voice cracks, but I push through anyway. “Because the saleswoman basically spat on me. But sure, fuck her. Fixed.”
There’s silence, the kind where I know he’s not actually ignoring me; he’s deciding what to do about me.
“Where are you,” he says finally.
I close my eyes. “Rowan?—”
“Where.”
I bite down on my lip because giving him the location feels like handing over the last scrap of control I have. “Elysian Boutique,” I whisper. “Off Fifth.”
“Stay put.” The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, hating the tremor in my hand. Hating that he’s probably already on his way. Hating that part of me wants him to be.
The saleswoman drifts back toward the dressing rooms with an armful of silk and sequins for someone else.
I tug the zipper down the rest of the way. The dress slips off my shoulders and drops onto the bench. I stand there, arms wrapped tight around myself, fighting the heat rising in my chest.
Five minutes pass. Ten. I’m about to shove everything into the bag and leave when the bell over the boutique door chimes. The low murmur of conversation stops. Even the saleswoman pauses mid-sentence.
“Where is she?” Rowan’s voice cuts across the space, dangerous in its certainty.
The saleswoman stammers something. “Sir, may I?—”
“No,” Rowan says, moving past her without slowing. “Where?”
A moment later, the curtain pulls back. He’s there, suit perfect, eyes locked on mine.
I fold my arms tighter and lift my chin. “You didn’t have to come,” I say. The words sound small.
He looks past me to the dress crumpled on the bench, then at the saleswoman hovering nearby. “Bag it,” he says. His tone leaves no room for argument. “And bring her the rest of the collection in her size.”
The saleswoman blinks. “Sir, those pieces are?—”
“Bag it,” Rowan repeats, gaze steady on mine. “Now.”
Heat climbs up my neck. Humiliation. Relief. Anger. All of it mixed together. He didn’t just come—he took control the second he walked in.
And I hate how much I need that right now.
The saleswoman disappears, heels clicking against the marble, and when she returns, her arms are stacked with silk, satin, and fabric. She won’t look me in the eye. She hangs the dresses on the hook and leaves without a word.
