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"Philippe," I try protesting again, "there’s no need to involve the store manager.”
"Nothing but the best for you,cara mia. You want it. It's yours. If you're confused, you can have two dresses. Or three. Or the whole goddamn store."
"You're ridiculous," I shake my head with a chuckle.
I continue browsing and am stunned by a sweetheart neckline French lace gown that clings at the waist before extending down into an A-line dress with ruffles.
Philippe insists I try on the gown that has caught my notice.
"Are you certain?" I ask softly. I don't even bother checking the price on this one, fearing what I'll see.
Philippe caressed my cheek before calling the manager. "Take this too," he hands him the dress.
My protests fade away. How can I deny him when he is so obviously invested in this? I follow the manager to the dressing room, where the boutique assistant helps me try on the gown. I slip on the first dress, the ivory silk and crystals shimmering under the warm lights.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. I feel like a goddess from a Greek fantasy.
The neckline, however, is a little too deep for the bride, I feel. And suddenly, I am too shy to let Philipp see me like this. Nevertheless, I step out—my heart pounds with nervousness, waiting for his reaction.
"You look breathtaking," he breathes, his voice filled with reverence.
A surge of confidence fills my veins, and I twirl around, feeling the chiffon fabric swish around my legs. The dress is undeniably beautiful, but deep down, I know it's not the one. It's too much, too daring, shouting for attention in ways that don't fit.
Before I even need to find the right words, Philippe motions to the assistant.
"Make her try the other dress," he insists.
I feel relieved at having found a husband who knows my mind as well as I do.
In the changing room, I try on the next one. The A-line French lace gown is a stylish understatement at its finest. The sweetheart neckline is an age-old traditional value. The way it hugs my curves is just modern enough—the cut is simply flattering.
I step out with a bright smile.
"Stunning," he says with genuine admiration. "This is the one."
I can't help but blush at his words. I feel beautiful like this dress was made specifically for me. I twirl around, feeling the soft lace brush against my skin as I do so.
"I love it," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Pack it," Philippe orders.
"Wait," I say, turning to the assistant. "How much is it?"
As the assistant names the price, I gasp.
"No. No way," my heart drops. I can't possibly justify spending that much on a dress. Not even for the most spectacular day of my life.
"Wrap it up," Philippe says confidently, his voice unwavering.
I turn to him in disbelief. "Philippe, we can't afford this. It's too much."
"Tesoro, we can afford it," he dismisses my concern, handing over his Amex Black Card.
I step aside, knowing this is one of those rare arguments I won't win.
Philippe beams, ushering me back out into the sunshine. My hand rests in the crook of his arm as we stroll through his compound. Our wedding planner, Cecile, follows.
The compound is stunning and dazzling, and when we were trying to find venues, I suggested we use this place right here. Philippe's parents are buried here. They'll be there with us. Iremember how touched he was, how he got on his knee and kissed my hands.
