Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blue
Wednesday Night
Over eighty hours have passed, and I haven't slept one second of it.
My eyes close at night, but no matter what I do, I can't seem to drift off.
My brain replays every second of my encounters with Red, like it's a precious filmstrip that might disintegrate if I don't watch it obsessively.
And there's one thing I can't stop circling back to.
He knows how much of a virgin I am.
Is he fantasizing about deflowering me as much as I am?
So every stitch I've sewn since Monday morning has been controlled by my confession. I've pushed all other work projects aside and focused on the white, innocent-looking sundress I've envisioned myself wearing. I know in my heart it'll tempt Red to make his move.
The fabric sighs beneath my fingers as I smooth the bodice again. It's my fifth redesign in two days. Nothing is good enough until it's perfect. It has to make Red lose that iron grip on himself, just once, just enough to prove I'm not imagining the tension that's been humming between us.
"Blue," my mom says gently, like she's approaching a frightened feral animal instead of her adult daughter. "Sweetheart, you need to stop for a minute. You've been reworking the same seam for half an hour."
I pretend I don't hear her, sliding the fabric under the presser foot. The machine hums to life, vibrating under my palms, but the line comes out uneven again. I rip it apart, jaw clenched.
Mom steps closer. "You're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You are," she insists, still maddeningly soft and controlled. "Your hands are trembling, Blue. And you look exhausted."
I lift the fabric, hold it back to the light, and frown at the neckline's curve. It's still wrong. It's too sweet without any sin. I reply, "I'm fine. I just need to adjust this again."
Mom's sigh is quiet, frayed around the edges. "You've been adjusting it since Monday. You have three fittings today, custom patterns to review, and the linen collection is supposed to get finalized by Friday. You haven't touched any of it."
I finally cut my gaze to her, irritation blooming hot under my skin. "I said I'm working."
"On this," she says, gesturing gently toward the dress like she's afraid to provoke me further. "But you have other responsibilities."
"Responsibilities that can wait."
She studies me and gently argues, "No, they can't. Not all of them. You're ignoring clients, ignoring deadlines—"
"I'm not ignoring anything. I'm prioritizing." The words snap sharper than I intend.
Her brows lift. "Prioritizing what? One dress you've ripped apart twenty times? A dress no one ordered?"
The jab lands harder than it should. I straighten, my pulse skipping. "It doesn't have to be ordered to matter."
"I didn't say it doesn't matter. I'm saying you're pouring everything you have into this one piece and nothing else. That's not like you," she claims.
I scoff, turn away from her, and refold the bodice, pressing the seams flat with the side of my thumb. My movements come out fast and jerky. I retort, "People evolve."
She steps closer, her voice lowering. "Blue, have you slept recently?"
"Sleeping's overrated," I mutter, peering closer at the thread. Then my frustration mounts.
Wrong thread.
I pull the spool off the machine and move to the wall, running my fingers over the different white options.
Mom's voice turns firm. "You're pale. You have dark circles under your eyes. I'm worried about you."
"Well, don't be."
"I can't not be." She touches my shoulder.
I shrug out of it. "I'm fine, Mom." I grab a new spool and return to my sewing machine.
"Talk to me," Mom demands.
The words cracks out of me. "No. There's nothing to talk about."
"Is everything okay in therapy?" she cautiously asks.
My stomach drops and spikes at the same time.
Of course, she'd bring him up. It's just like her to pick the one subject I cannot and will not let her contaminate. Plus, it's her fault I'm in therapy. She didn't believe me and took Brax's side. She even turned Dad against me.
"Therapy is private," I remind her, yank the fabric away from the machine, and place it on the table, smoothing it with shaking fingers. "You don't get to know my business."
"I'm not trying to intrude," she claims.
I huff, "Sure you aren't." I try to weave the thread through the needle, but my hands aren't cooperating.
"Honey, you're obsessing and shaking. Your mind is somewhere else entirely."
I press my nails into the fabric. "Maybe that's because I'm finally making something that matters."
She insists, "All your work matters. But this isn't part of your duties this week. So why has this dress become your fixation?"
"Don't call it that."
"What would you call it?"
"Clarity. Focus," I declare, spinning my chair and lunging toward the fabrics. I grab the bolt of white, rose lace, and hold it up. It's delicate, feminine, and see-through.
"Perfect," I mutter, imagining it barely hiding my skin and Red's eyes when he sees me in it.
Mom tries again. "Blue…sweetheart…please slow down. I'm not trying to attack you. I'm trying to understand what's happening."
"Nothing is happening," I mumble, grabbing the edge of the skirt to inspect it again. My eyes blur, but I refuse to blink. If I blink, she'll think she's getting through to me. She isn't.
"This dress isn't on your schedule. Deadlines are piling up. You're pushing everything aside, including sleep, to work on something you won't even explain."
I snap, "I am explaining. You're just not listening."
Her gaze sweeps over my face. She claims, "I am listening. And what I see is my daughter obsessing over a dress she's redesigned five times in forty-eight hours."
"Because it matters."
"Why?" she questions.
My insides quiver. I reply, "Because it does." I move to the fabric table and unroll the lace. I accuse, "Why does everything need a reason with you? Why can't I just want something?"
She pins her eyebrows together. "You can."
"Then let me do what I need to do," I assert.
"You need sleep. Why don't you go home—"
"Sleep is irrelevant right now," I say too loudly.
Her eyes widen.
I sigh, my heart beating so fast, I release the lace and plop into my seat.
Mom rolls another chair in front of mine. "Does your therapist know you haven't slept since Sunday?"
I go completely still. Machines hum, scissors snip, and fabric rustles. Blood rushing in my ears, I warn, "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Talk to me about my therapist."
Sympathy fills her expression. She puts her hand over mine. "Blue, I think he needs to know what's going on. Do you want me to call and talk to him for you?"
She's going to break up my relationship with him just like she took Brax away from me!
"Don't you dare call him! My therapy is my business!" I seethe.
She studies me for a long, painful moment. "Sweetheart…you're unraveling."
"I'm not unraveling," I insist, even as my voice trembles. "I'm inspired. This dress is coming from something real. Something good. Can't you just let me have that?"
Her eyes gloss over. She doesn't take her stare off me. "If your therapist knew you were awake for days, working obsessively, shaking like this, he'd want to know so he could help you."
I swallow hard. The thought of Red knowing I haven't slept and knowing it's because of him, that he's taken over every part of my mind, sends a hot, dangerous thrill through me. But I'm not giving my mother the satisfaction.
I lift my chin. "He doesn't need to worry, and neither do you."
"I am worried."
"Well, stop," I snap, turning back to the machine. "Worrying doesn't help anyone."
"Blue—"
"I have a session at six," I cut in, lifting the Sundress higher and inspecting it. "He'll see me. He'll guide me. That's all you need to know."
Mom goes quiet. Then, softly asks, "And will you tell him the truth?"
I grip the dress so tightly that the fabric wrinkles. "I'll tell him what matters."
"And the rest?"
"Doesn't," I insist.
Her expression falls, a slow collapsing of hope. "I love you. That's why I'm asking."
I don't look at her. I can't. "I have to finish this."
She hesitates, then steps back, finally surrendering. "Please take care of yourself today."
I nod, refusing to lift my eyes from the white lace.
She walks away, and I smooth the bodice again, though the seams are already perfect.
It still isn't enough.
It won't be until Red sees me in it.
Then he'll understand why I haven't slept.
He'll know he's the reason I'm awake, and it'll turn him on so much, he won't be able to resist me.
I lift the dress again, hold it to my body, and twist toward the long mirror by the fabric wall.
My reflection looks wild. My eyes are too bright, cheeks too flushed, and my hair's falling out of my messy bun in thin, frantic strands.
But I don't care. Red's dress is perfect now.
There's a sweet neckline with soft straps and a skirt that moves like whispered promises.
He'll see me in it and forget his own name.
I stare at my reflection, seeing myself clearly as if it's already on my body.
A dress isn't enough.
The thought flashes across my brain so quickly, I don't realize I'm already digging through the lace pile until my hands close around the rose lace. It's delicate, sheer, and soft. It's the exact shade of innocence no one can pretend is innocent.
A thrill bursts through me. I whisper, "Yes," and line it up on the cutting table, practically singing, "This is right. This is… Yes! This is exactly right."
I skip the sketching part and barely breathe. My fingers move at a speed I didn't know I possessed, trimming, shaping, draping, and pinning. The lace slips through my hands like temptation.
I fold it into a bra shape, even though it'll barely cover anything. Then I work on the panties, giving them thin straps, a stingy amount of lace on the ass cheeks, and a V so deep it borders on obscene.
My heart races faster with every snip of scissors.
This isn't for him to see me in today.