These nights are what people dream of—the gowns, the attention, the validation that your work matters.
But something about them always makes my skin feel too tight, like I'm watching myself perform from somewhere outside my body. The conversations are hollow. The laughter sounds canned. And I can never shake the feeling that everyone in the room can see straight through me to the girl who doesn't quite belong there.
Wes knocks once before opening the door, already dressed and polished. The tux fits him perfectly, of course. His Patek Philippe gleams at his wrist as he adjusts his cufflinks.
Everything always does.
He looks like a man built for rooms like this. For lights and applause and being watched.
“Jesus, you're still not ready?"
"I just have to put my dress on."
"Nora, you know how I feel about being late to these things. It's not a good look.” He lectures.
"Sorry, I just got off the phone with Camilla."
"And?"
"How did the news of this engagement break before I even had a chance to tell my family?"
"I told a few people last night. I was excited and it must have been accidentally leaked."
Accidentally.
"Hey," he says, stepping closer, hands settling on my shoulders. His grip is light but firm, grounding and possessive all at once. "It's just noise. It'll blow over."
"It doesn't feel like noise," I say. "It feels like my life."
He smiles, indulgent. "Tonight is important, Nora. For me. For the studio. Tomorrow, we'll call your family and share the big news together. Now, go put on your dress."
I nod, because it's easier to move forward than to stop everything and ask the room to wait while I figure out how I actually feel.
The red Valentino dress feels like a small act of rebellion when I slip it on. The material is cool against my skin, the color deep and grounding.
I look at myself in the mirror and, for a brief moment, I recognize the woman staring back.
When I step back into the bedroom, Wes's eyes flick over me.
"Why that one?" he asks. "I thought we picked the gold Versace?"
"I just like this one more," I say, instantly aware of how small my voice sounds.
He tilts his head. "Are you sure you don't want to change?"
The question hangs between us, deceptively gentle.
My chest tightens.
I swallow the feeling, and turn back toward the closet.
The Versace is heavier. Louder. The gold demands attention I don't want.
When I step out again, he beams.
"That's better," he says. "You look beautiful."
He kisses me, quick and confident, then reaches for my hand.
