Chapter 8 Ghosted
Ghosted
Hazel
Once upon a time, when I’d thought I might still have a chance at a love life, I’d tried my luck with dating apps. I’d had moderate success. Some of the men I’d spoken with had been interesting. But unavoidably, the result had always been the same.
The chat died. I lost interest. And I just ghosted them.
It wasn’t something I took pride in. It just kind of happened. My time was better spent working on my cakes than continuing a conversation that would lead nowhere.
Karma was a vicious bitch, because now that I was finally interested in someone, he was ghosting me.
More than a week had passed since Brok and Barnaby’s last visit.
One week of radio silence from them both.
I’d sent texts that went unread. I’d called and hit voicemail immediately.
I’d even considered showing up at Brok’s apartment with a peace offering of dark chocolate truffles.
There was just one problem with that idea. I didn’t know where he lived.
It was just as well. Showing up without being invited like some kind of stalker was too pathetic to even consider.
Instead, I’d stayed home and stress-baked seventeen dozen cookies for the senior center. Mrs. Patterson had actually hugged me. That was how pathetic I’d become.
My phone buzzed with another message from Nana. The fifth one today. All of them variations on the same theme: had I picked out a dress for the gala yet? Did I need her to send Hunter with her credit card? Was I absolutely certain I remembered the date?
The woman had survived three husbands and built a small empire through sheer force of will. You’d think she could trust me to remember a single social engagement. But no. Apparently my ability to run a successful business for five years didn’t translate to basic calendar management in Nana’s eyes.
I needed a dress. More specifically, I needed a dress that would satisfy Nana’s exacting standards while not making me feel like I was attending my own wake.
The intersection of those two requirements existed somewhere in the fashion equivalent of Bigfoot territory.
Theoretically possible, never actually documented.
Which was how I found myself downtown on a Thursday afternoon, standing in front of Maison élégante with all the enthusiasm of a woman approaching a root canal.
The boutique’s windows gleamed with tasteful displays of mannequins in gowns that probably cost more than my commercial oven. Everything was cream and champagne and delicate blush. Everything here belonged on someone who subsisted entirely on air and the approval of others.
I pushed through the door anyway. A tiny bell chimed overhead. Within the blink of an eye, a saleswoman materialized in front of me.
“Welcome to Maison élégante.” She was impossibly thin, impossibly elegant, and smiling in a way that made my skin crawl. “Are you looking for something special today?”
I recognized that tone. I’d heard it my whole life, usually right before someone suggested I might be ‘happier’ shopping in a different section.
It didn’t take a genius to realize she’d already catalogued every flaw in my appearance and found me wanting.
My plain sweater, my loose jeans, my simple sneakers.
They were all a crime here. As was, worst of all, my weight.
“I need a dress for a charity gala.” The words came out more defensively than I’d intended. “Something appropriate for a formal event.”
Her gaze swept over me in a single, assessing glance. I could practically hear her internal calculations: size, budget, likelihood of actually making a purchase versus just wasting her time.
“Of course.” Her smile tightened fractionally, but she stayed professional. Sort of. “Let me show you our selection of evening wear in your size.”
She guided me toward the back of the store, where the dresses were noticeably less prominently displayed.
Hidden, really, as if they were shameful secrets.
Everything here was in darker colors, with more forgiving cuts.
She couldn’t have made her disdain more obvious if she’d tried.
These are for women like you. Nothing else will fit.
The dresses she pulled were fine. They were exactly the kind of thing Nana would approve of on principle: modest, mature, respectable. Hiding every imperfection.
I hated every single one with the passion of a thousand suns.
“Perhaps this one?” The saleswoman held up a navy blue number with a high neckline and three-quarter sleeves. It looked like something a particularly conservative librarian would wear to a funeral. “Very elegant. Very slimming.”
Slimming. Of course. Of course the priority wasn’t whether I looked good, or felt confident, or even liked the damn dress. The priority was making sure I took up less space. Visually, if not physically.
This was never going to work. What had I been thinking, coming here? I didn’t belong at Nana’s parties, and I certainly didn’t belong in elegant dresses.
“I’ll think about it,” I told the saleswoman, not even bothering to fake enthusiasm. “Thank you for your help.”
The woman nodded, no doubt relieved she’d gotten rid of me so easily. I couldn’t be bothered to care. I was halfway to the door, already mentally composing a text to Nana about how nothing had fit.
And then someone stepped in my way. “Oh, honey, no. You’re not leaving yet.”
The woman was tall, with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass.
Her asymmetrical haircut wouldn’t have been out of place on a runway model who’d time-traveled from three different decades.
Her outfit was an impossible collision of vintage lace and modern leather, all in shades of deep burgundy and black.
A choker made of actual Victorian mourning jewelry circled her throat.
Multiple rings glinted on her fingers. Her boots seemed to be drowning in buckles.
“That creature just tried to put you in navy blue,” she drawled. Her voice was rich and amused, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. European, maybe? “Navy blue. For a gala. Absolutely criminal.”
“I… what?” Eloquent, Hazel. Really selling the successful business owner image.
“You need something that makes a statement.” She circled me slowly, and I felt myself being assessed again.
But this was different from the saleswoman’s clinical inventory of my flaws.
This felt like she was seeing something underneath.
“Something that says you’re not here to fade into the wallpaper. You’re here to be seen.”
My skin prickled under her gaze. “I’m not really a ‘statement’ kind of person.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” She stopped directly in front of me, hands on her hips. “I’ve only just met you, and I can already tell you love to prove a point.”
The observation took my breath away. Not because it was some shocking accusation, but because she was right.
I did stand up for myself. Every time I perfected a new recipe, I was saying something about precision and passion.
Even with Brok and Barnaby, I’d been the same.
I’d had confidence in my craft. I just didn’t translate that confidence to anything involving my actual body.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “What did you have in mind?”
Her smile was pure wickedness. The kind of smile that probably got people in trouble on a regular basis. “Come with me.”
She led me to a completely different section of the store, one the saleswoman had carefully steered me away from. The dresses here were bolder, brighter. They had personality. They had presence. They might actually be fun to wear.
She pulled a dress from the rack, already seeming to vibrate with an anticipation that rivaled Barnaby’s. “Try this.”
The dress was red. Not a tasteful burgundy or a demure wine. It was red like a warning label, like the lipstick I’d never been brave enough to wear.
The neckline plunged in a way that made my breath catch. The fabric would cling to every curve I’d spent my life trying to minimize. Everything about it screamed for attention, making my stomach flip and my pulse race.
“I can’t wear that.”
She held it up against me, tilting her head to study the effect. “Why not?”
“Because I’m… I’m going to a charity gala with my grandmother. And a date who’s a lawyer.” The excuses tumbled out. “My grandmother has opinions about appropriate attire. Strong opinions. Opinions that have made grown men weep.”
“Even better.” She thrust the dress into my hands.
The fabric was heavier than I expected, substantial.
Quality. “A lawyer needs to be reminded that not everything in life fits into neat little boxes. And your grandmother…” She paused, studying my face with unnerving intensity.
“Your grandmother sounds like someone who appreciates power. This dress is power.”
She was right about that too. Nana didn’t respect weakness. She respected strength, even when she disapproved of how it was expressed.
“Trust me,” the woman said, and this time, her voice came out softer. Almost kind. “Try it on.”
I found myself in the dressing room before I could form a coherent argument. On automatic pilot, I pulled off my jeans and unzipped the dress. By now, my hands were shaking, but that didn’t stop me. I stepped into the red dress and pulled it up, half-convinced it wouldn’t even zip.
The fabric settled against my skin as if it had been waiting for me specifically. It felt like every other person who’d tried on this dress had just been keeping it warm until I arrived. The zipper slid up smoothly. I turned to face the mirror.
Oh.
The woman looking back at me was a stranger.
She had curves that the dress celebrated rather than concealed.
She had skin that glowed against the vibrant red.
She looked confident. Powerful. Dangerous, even.
Like someone who walked into rooms and commanded attention without having to say a single word.