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A few minutes later, Gemma emerges in a stunning silk gown that clings to every curve.
“It feels so good against my skin. So soft and smooth.”
The plunging neckline exposes the inner slopes of her breasts. The slit in the skirt reveals an expanse of creamy thigh that makes my pulse skyrocket. She looks sexy as hell.
I shift in my seat, tugging at my suddenly too-tight collar. The desire flaming through me is dangerous and unacceptable.
She steps closer, trailing a hand down the side of the dress. “What do you think?” she asks innocently. “Is it too much?”
I swallow hard.
“It's your dress,” I say gruffly. “As long as you like it.”
Gemma laughs. The sound bubbles up, light and melodic. “Oh, Dylan, you're blushing!”
I scowl, which only makes her laugh harder.
“I'm teasing,” she says, giving my arm a playful swat. “I would never pick this for my wedding. Can you imagine my Dad's face?”
The mental image makes us both chuckle, but the older woman looks appalled.
“Let's try something a little more demure,” Gemma says, to the woman’s relief.
A short time later, Gemma is wearing a lace gown with a high neckline and long sleeves. A pearl and crystal embellished bodice hugs her torso.
It’s elegant and understated but the spark is missing from those striking blue eyes. Gemma will never find the right dress, because she doesn’t want to.
My heart aches. Today should be one of the happiest times of her life. Instead, she gives off the impression that she's attending a funeral.
“Like something out of a fairy tale,” the stylist croons.
Gemma's expression crumples. She blinks, holding back tears.
“Let's try adding a veil,” Mrs. Ainsley suggests brightly.
Gemma shakes her head, dislodging a tear that rolls down her cheek.
The stylist touches Gemma's arm gently. “What's the matter, dear?”
“I wish my mom could be here,” she says softly. “She always said she wanted to help me choose my wedding dress. But she died when I was seven.”
The stylist makes a sympathetic noise. “I'm sure she's still with you in spirit.”
Losing a parent so young—I can't imagine how hard that must have been.
Mrs. Ainsley clucks sympathetically. “Your father is doing what he thinks is best for you.”
Gemma takes a shaky breath. “My Dad has given up so much for me, working himself to the bone to expand the family business after Mom died. I don't want to disappoint him. Maybe it's just nerves—” Her voice trails off. Gemma sounds so lost, so alone.
Mrs. Ainsley assures Gemma that brides-to-be commonly feel this way before their big day.
But I know better; it's not nerves. I know because every fiber of my being screams that Gemma should be walking down the aisle toward me—not Julian Montague or any other man.
My chest tightens. Gemma deserves more from life. She deserves to be loved and to be free. She's under immense pressure to fulfill Anthony Caldwell's impossible expectations of his only child.
I didn't realize I had strong feelings about arranged marriages.
But watching Gemma silently suffer through this wedding dress fitting stirs memories I've kept locked away--young Afghani brides with dead eyes paraded before strangers twice their age. Girls scarcely old enough to understand their fate.
