ELLIOTT
WatchingVictoria Miranda pack a suitcase was like watching a whirlwind in a floral apron.
She was shoving clothes into a duffel bag with a level of enthusiasm that was bordering on insulting to her daughter. A shirt sleeve hung out of the zipper like a white flag of surrender. I caught Vanessa looking at her mother with a mix of confusion and wounded pride, and I had to look away to keep from smirking. Victoria didn't just want Vanessa out of the house; shewanted her settled. She wanted grandkids. She wanted Vanessa off the "market," and apparently, she viewed me as a viable buyer.
"Are you allergic to looking decent?" Victoria hissed, eyeing Vanessa’s torn jeans and that ratty band tee.
I couldn't help it; a snort escaped me. Vanessa shot me a look that could have curdled milk, but I just met her father’s gaze. He gave me a knowing, weary nod, and we both grabbed the bags, heading for the car like soldiers retreating from a battlefield.
I lingered by the door for a second, just enough to hear Vanessa tell her mother, "Not if he were the last man on earth. Okay?"
I leaned against the doorframe, letting her see me. I didn't say anything, but for a split second, the bite of her words actually stung. I told myself it shouldn't matter. We were oil and water. We were a disaster waiting to happen. But as I watched her say goodbye to her mother—the softness in her eyes, the way she clung to that hug—I realized I wasn't just taking her to a studio. I was stealing her from the only place she felt safe.
The drive was quiet. I bought her the doughnut and the chai latte as a peace offering, and she inhaled them with a ferocity that was honestly impressive for someone who barely reached my shoulder.
"You eat a lot for such a tiny person," I said, mostly because the silence was starting to itch.
"Are you calling me fat?!" she barked shamelessly through a mouthful of glazed dough.
"No. I'm saying it's amazing you’re so small. Your mother offered me four plates of food in an hour. I can't imagine what she does to you."
"Feeding people is her love language," she muttered, her voice softening. "If she didn't like you, she wouldn't even offer you water."
I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. If Victoria Miranda actually liked me, she was a poor judge of character. Or maybe she saw exactly what I was trying to hide: that I had spent fifteen thousand dollars just to get her daughter in a car with me.
When we pulled up toEver After, I saw her breath hitch.
"Never had a building make me feel so small," she whispered, staring up at the storefront. "Am I even allowed inside, or am I on a poster in the security office?"
"Alone, no. With me, yes," I said, playing the part of the cold CEO.
Inside, the air changed. The shop was quiet, the Sunday light catching the lace of the display gowns. Vanessa stopped, her eyes tracking the details of the dresses with a reverence that reminded me why I’d done all of this. She didn't see fabric; she saw time spent, creations come to life.
"Research for your collection?" I asked, watching her reflection in the glass. I could see her eyes wandering over me—my white tee, my jeans.
"Just wondering if I’ve got enough trunk space for your body," she snapped.
"Second death threat of the day. You're in a spectacular mood."
I placed my hand on the small of her back to guide her forward. I felt the jolt go through her, but I didn't pull away. I wanted her to feel me. I wanted her to know that for the next thirty days, I was the only thing she had to answer to.
Morgan appeared like a heat-seeking missile of joy, dragging Vanessa into the chaos of the bridesmaid fittings. I stood back, watching them—watching Vanessa slide back into her element. She talked to Mary, the seamstress, about her kids, her fingers trailing over the tulle with a muscle memory that was beautiful to watch.
Then came the dress fitting.
When I saw Raul, one of the bridal fitting attendants—a man I was sure was perfectly harmless—heading into the dressing room with her, a flash of irrational, hot jealousy spiked in my throat.
"Out," I barked, stepping into the room before I could talk myself out of it.
Vanessa whirled around, clutching the merlot-colored fabric to her chest. "What is your problem, Satan?!"
"It shouldn't be a guy in here with you," I growled. My face felt hot, and I realized with a start that I was actually blushing. I looked at the floor, the walls, anywhere but her bare shoulders.
"It's Raul!” she snapped. "And newsflash—you're a guy, too."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I reached out and took the dress from her, holding it open. She stepped in, and the world seemed to shrink until there was only the sound of her breathing and the rustle of silk.
I reached for the zipper. My fingers brushed her skin—warm, velvet-soft, and prickling with goosebumps. I moved slowly, making the metal teeth climb the track one by one. I wanted to linger. I wanted to see if she would lean back into me or pull away. When I finished, I caught her eye in the mirror.
