Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
NAOMI
T he boutique smells like money, freshly steamed bills, I mean silk, and the kind of perfume that comes in bottles too pretty to open. Mirrors stretch from floor to ceiling, multiplying my reflection into infinity, each version more uncertain than the last.
“Welcome to élysée. Mr. and Mrs. Milton.” A woman in a gray pencil dress approaches, her heels clicking against marble floors. “I’m Marina. Your husband called ahead.”
“Mrs. Milton?” I shoot daggers at Brandon with my eyes.
His fingers skim my lower back before resting there, light but firm. “My wife needs a new wardrobe. Everything.”
“I don’t.”
“Everything that actually fits.” His voice hardens. “No more of these torture devices you call dresses.”
The audacity of this man. “Excuse me?”
“I trust you can help us?” He ignores me completely.
So that’s why he asked about my plans today.
“Of course.” Marina’s eyes sweep over my current outfit, another too-tight dress that digs into my ribs with every breath. “Let’s start with measurements, shall we?”
“I don’t need measurements.”
“Cupcake.” Brandon’s fingers press firmer against my spine. “Trust me?”
I’ll always trust him, and I did say no more running. “Fine.” I exhale. “But no numbers.”
Marina nods. “Please follow me to the private fitting room.”
The space she leads us to is cavernous. Plush cream carpet, a curved velvet sofa where Brandon sprawls immediately, and more mirrors—these ones softly lit to be kind to every angle.
“I’ll bring some pieces while my assistant takes your measurements,” Marina says. “Any color preferences?”
“Not black,” Brandon answers before I can. When I turn to glare at him, he shrugs. “Let’s try something new.”
Marina disappears with a knowing smile, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over my chest.
“I can’t believe you planned this,” I say.
“Believe it.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You deserve clothes that make you feel good, not ones that punish you.”
A petite assistant enters with a measuring tape, and my stomach clenches. “Please lift your arms.”
I close my eyes as she works, trying to focus on Brandon’s presence rather than the pressure of the tape against my skin.
“All done,” the assistant says minutes later. “Marina will be right in with some selections.”
When I open my eyes, Brandon’s watching me with an intensity that makes my cheeks warm. “What?”
“You did good.” He pats the space next to him. “Come here.”
I sink into the velvet. “I still think this is unnecessary.”
“Noted and ignored.” He runs his hand up and down my thigh. “You know what I think about your current wardrobe.”
“They’re just clothes.”
“They’re weapons you use against yourself.” His voice dips, smooth as silk and just as dangerous. “And I’m done watching you hurt yourself.”
Marina returns before I can argue, rolling in a rack of clothes in colors I’d never pick for myself. Soft blues, deep greens, rich purples.
“Let’s start with this.” She holds up a silk wrap dress in a shade of burgundy that reminds me of wine.
I touch the material, surprised by its softness. “It’s beautiful, but…”
“Try it,” Brandon says. Not a command, but not quite a suggestion either.
Inside the changing area, I peel off my constricting black sheath and let the burgundy silk drape over me.
I twist in front of the mirror, trying to find the familiar pinch of fabric, the reassuring bite of a zipper holding me together. But there’s nothing, just yards of wine-colored material that floats around me like a cloud.
It’s a sensation I’m not used to. I should feel free, but as I stare at my reflection, I can’t shake the tightness in my chest. It feels wrong.
“Everything okay?” Marina asks.
I step out of the changing area, my hands smoothing down the front of the dress. Marina and Brandon are waiting, their eyes on me, and suddenly I feel exposed, like they can see straight through the silk to the mess beneath.
“Marina,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. “Please, give us a moment.”
She nods, closing the door with a soft click behind her.
Brandon crosses the room in three long strides, his hands settling on my waist. “Relax.” His thumbs trace a gentle circle against my hip. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” I say, but even I can hear the tightness in my voice, the way the words come out clipped and short.
“No, you’re not.” His hands float to my ribcage. “You’re holding everything so tight I can feel your muscles trembling from here.”
“I’m fi?—”
His lips seize mine, swallowing my protests. The kiss is demanding, and he pulls me flush against him, his mouth continuing its welcome assault on mine.
Lightheadedness takes over, but I can’t tell if it’s from the lack of air or the way his tongue sweeps into my mouth, stealing what little breath I have left.
I hold onto his shirt for dear life as the room starts to spin, and black spots dance behind my closed eyes. Just when I think I might actually pass out, Brandon breaks the kiss.
“Breathe, Naomi.” He doesn’t go far, his forehead resting against mine as we both pant for air. “Just breathe.”
So I do. I take a deep breath, and then another, and another. And as my lungs expand, it’s strange. The dress moves with me, the silk flowing over my skin like water.
I inhale again. Deeper this time. No pinching. No tightness. No constricting.
I’ve spent years measuring my worth in sizes, in the way fabric clings or cuts too deep. But this? This is just… me.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” He spins me to face the mirror. “See what I see?”
I stare at my reflection, but for once, I’m not counting flaws or cataloging imperfections.
“You’re beautiful.” His hands rest warm and steady on my hips. “And you deserve clothes that celebrate that, not punish you for existing.”
I look good. Happy.
And with Brandon by my side. Safe. Cherished. Beautiful.
“So.” His eyes capture mine in the mirror. “What’s the verdict on the dress?”
“I like it.”
His smile is radiant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I smile just as much. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, cupcake.” He kisses my temple and resumes to his place on the couch. “Marina. You can come back in.”
She returns with an armful of dresses, skirts, and blouses in a rainbow of colors, adding them to the rack, each piece more beautiful than the last.
“Let’s try the next one, shall we?” She hands me a deep green wrap dress, the fabric so soft it feels like a whisper against my skin.
I disappear back into the changing room, shedding the burgundy dress and sliding into the green. It hugs my curves in all the right places, the neckline dipping just low enough to be alluring without making me feel exposed.
When I step out, Brandon’s eyes follow with an exaggerated level of awe, like a dog watching its owner make dinner. “Wow.”
I can’t help but smile. “You like it?”
“I love it.” He stands, circling me slowly. “You look incredible.”
Marina nods approvingly. “The color is perfect for your complexion. And the fit is exquisite.”
We continue like this for what feels like hours, Marina bringing in piece after piece, each one more stunning than the last. Flowy skirts, soft sweaters, jeans that hug my hips without suffocating me.
Every time I emerge from the changing room, Brandon’s entire face lights up like I’ve just offered him his favorite treat.
“Turn around!” He makes a spinning motion with his finger. “No, slower. Wait. One more time. Marina, doesn’t she look amazing? She looks amazing, right?”
With each new outfit, I feel lighter, freer. It’s as if the clothes are peeling away layers of self-doubt and insecurity, revealing a version of myself I never even thought to imagine.
By the time we’re finished, I’m exhausted but elated. Marina has a mountain of clothes waiting to be packaged and delivered.
“Thank you,” I say to her. “This was… amazing.”
She beams with genuine care. “It was my pleasure.”
“Marina.” Brandon stands, stretching like a cat waking from a nap. “Put it all on my account, please.”
“What? No.” I reach for my purse. “I can pay for my own clothes.”
“No need. It’s on me,” he says. “Marina, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Milton.” Marina’s fingers dance across a tablet. “Would you like these delivered or?—”
“I said no.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “Brandon, you can’t just?—”
“Consider it an investment in your comfort.”
“My comfort isn’t your job.”
“No?” His eyebrow arches. “Pretty sure that’s exactly what it is.”
Warmth rises along my neck. “That’s not what this is about.”
He steps forward, voice dropping so low only I can hear it. “It’s not you fighting something good because you think you don’t deserve it?”
The words hit too close to home. I glance at Marina, but she’s very interested in reorganizing the rack with my future clothes.
“I can pay myself,” I whisper.
“I know you can.” His fingers brush my arm. “But sometimes it’s okay to let someone take care of you.”
“Brandon.”
“Please?” His shoulders drop, making him look like a sad puppy, complete with wide eyes and a slight pout. “Let me have this one, cupcake. I’ve been so good today. I didn’t even try to sneak into the changing room once.”
“That’s because Marina was watching you like a hawk.”
“Details.”
I steal a glance at the sage dress, at how it falls without constraining. At how it lets me breathe. I’m not used to this, being taken care of, being spoiled. It feels foreign, but not entirely unwelcome.
“I hate you.” I stab my finger at his chest. “But this is a one-time thing.”
His smile is pure satisfaction. “We’ll see about that.”
“I’ll have these delivered to your address in one hour, Mr. Milton.” Marina hands Brandon a sleek black card. “Thank you for choosing élysée.”
“Thank you for your help.” Brandon’s hand finds its way back to my lower back as we exit. “Ready to go home?”
“Yes.” I can’t stop touching the fabric of my new dress as we leave, inhaling and exhaling deeper than necessary.
How long will it take until this feels normal?
We stop at Elliot’s for a quick bite. The risotto is creamy and rich, studded with mushrooms and truffle oil. I manage a few bites before my stomach starts to protest, but it’s progress. Brandon doesn’t comment, but I see the slight nod of approval as he watches me eat and then proceed with my usual salad.
By the time we arrive at my husband’s place, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.
Calling him my husband feels oddly right. But would I actually say yes if he asked?
How long would be appropriate to wait? We’re already practically a married couple, at least, that’s what Sebastian and Blake used to joke about in college. Wait.
Am I really thinking about marrying him? I need to get a grip. He buys me clothes, and suddenly I’m imagining wedding vows?
Maybe he even planned this, planted the idea in my head, that little…
My husband.
The clothes from élysée already arrived, nestled beside the door in a flurry of tissue paper, ribbons and beautiful paper bags. This is too much.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
He captures my wrist tenderly, almost hesitant, and when I look up, his eyes search mine. “You okay?”
Am I? This—I don’t want to go to the bathroom to purge. I need a moment to myself. “I am.”
He holds my gaze a beat longer, as if weighing whether to say more. Then he nods, releasing my wrist. “Take your time.”
I walk slowly to the bathroom, each step an effort to pull myself back together. When I close the door behind me, I don’t lock it. Instead, I lean against it, letting the cool wood seep into my skin.
Why is he doing this? No. Why am I fighting it so hard? He’s right: it feels good. The dress, the food, his unyielding support. It all feels so damn good that it’s terrifying.
I splash water on my face and pat it dry with a plush towel. The woman in the mirror looks different, softer around the edges, less brittle, and more alive.
Is this who I could be with him?
There’s nothing. No need to purge.
It’s good I only took a few bites. Maybe that’s the reason.
I wash my hands and reach for the door handle. It doesn’t move. I frown, jiggling it harder. Still nothing.
“Brandon?” I call out. “The door’s stuck.”
“Give me a second,” he calls back.
“What are you doing?” I can hear him moving around.
“Patience, cupcake.”
I roll my eyes. “Brandon, I swear to god, if you’ve planned another surprise?—”
The door swings open, and I nearly tumble into his chest. He catches me with a grin. “Surprise.”
I right myself, smoothing down my dress. “What are you up to now?”
He walks aside, gesturing for me to exit the bathroom. I’m ready to give him an earful, but the words die on my tongue as I take in the transformed bedroom.
Candles flicker on every surface, casting a warm glow over the space. Rose petals are scattered across the bed, a bottle of champagne chills in a silver bucket on the nightstand, and soft music plays in the background.
“What the fuck?”