Chapter Fifteen
Olivia
The seamstress steps back, squints at the hem, and hums a little tune that means she’s thinking. She smooths the fabric over my hip with the back of her knuckles like she’s petting a skittish cat.
“Beautiful line,” she says. “I’ll take one more half-inch at the waist.” She tucks three pins into the corner of her mouth and looks me over again. “And we’ll steam after I’m done, so she falls like water.”
She gestures to the mirror. “Don’t move. I’ll grab chalk.” And then she’s gone, shoes whispering down the short hall toward the workroom, the beaded curtain giving a faint clatter as it settles.
I’m alone in the room with the mirrors, wearing the dress. Low harmonic music slides out of the ceiling speakers.
I take a breath and look at myself standing on a little stool in front of a three-way mirror.
The gown is midnight, the kind of dark that absorbs light instead of reflecting it.
It’s silk over a softer lining. It has a subtle sweetheart neckline held by slim, delicate straps.
The back dips in a low scoop. Not scandalous, but enough to make me feel a little exposed.
The skirt skims my hips and then spills to the floor in a dark waterfall that makes me look taller.
It’s fun, a little flirty, but still appropriate for the occasion.
It suits my hair. I left it down for the fitting, and the dark loose waves look darker, shinier against the deep blue. My eyes, traitors that they are, go vivid in this color. Blue on blue. The seamstress was right about that.
The heels are higher than I’d pick for a normal night—slim straps, a little twist of satin at the toe—but this isn’t a normal night.
Caterina said the word “ball” with a straight face and then told me I was going as a guest, not staff.
“Everyone who isn’t working goes as a guest,” she said, already texting before I could argue. “We celebrate our people on the final night.” Which apparently means we go full fairytale.
She also said she was covering the gown, shoes, and accessories. “Non-negotiable,” she added in the same tone she uses when she wants the last word. The shop had me on the schedule fifteen minutes later. “This place is family,” she said. “They will take care of you.”
They are.
There are dresses of all colors on display in the store, everything from casual to royally formal. Tuxedos on one side, gowns on the other. A steamer hisses from somewhere in the back.
I shift my weight, and the dress shifts with me like it can anticipate my moves. In the mirror, a woman stares back, shoulders bare, a hint of breast visible above the soft neckline. She looks… composed.
I try to keep my gaze on the hem, on the fall, on the details—anywhere but the place where my brain goes if I let it.
Three weeks is long enough for a bruise to fade.
The crescent he left where my neck meets my shoulder is gone from my skin.
I still see it when I turn just so. I still feel the echo if I press my thumb there.
I’m ridiculous, and I know it, but the memory lives in strange places.
In mirrors. In fabric. In the way my breath hitches when certain doors slide open.
The beaded curtain clatters again, but the sound isn’t the seamstress’s whispering shoes. It’s heavier. Confident. Familiar in a way that gets under my skin before my mind catches up.
I don’t turn right away. I see him in the mirror first.
Roberto.
He’s in a tuxedo jacket, open. The shirt is crisp and white, and the black of the lapel looks carved. The tux fits him like it was made for him. It probably was. His bow tie is around his neck but not knotted yet.
It feels intimate in a way that surprises me. His hair is neat. His jaw is clean-shaven. There’s the shadow of a smile that isn’t a real smile, just a softening at the corner of his mouth like he’s practicing one.
He sees me see him. His eyes do a quick sweep, the kind that takes everything in and then does it again slower, like he wants to be sure the first pass wasn’t a trick.
For a heartbeat, neither of us talks.
Then he finds his voice. “Olivia.”
I swallow. “Hi,” I say, because I’m very cool and impressive, apparently.
His gaze flickers to the workroom hall, and he does that quick, easy calculation he always does in public—who’s around, what doors are open, what can be seen.
“I should’ve asked before coming through,” he says softly.
It’s a courtesy, a bit of cover, a way to say I didn’t mean to walk straight into you like this.
“It’s fine,” I say, and it is, and it isn’t, and all of it is true at once.
He steps closer but stops with a respectable space between us. The music lifts—strings now, with the bright notes of a piano.
“You look…” He stops like he’s searching for an appropriate word. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, because I want to say a dozen things and none of them will help. “You look—”
He lifts a hand, palm out, pretending to block praise. It’s a joke. It breaks the line of tension just enough for me to breathe. “It’s the tailor,” he says. “Not me.”
“No,” I say, and my voice gets brave, surprising me. “It’s you.”
His eyes meet mine and hold me there. One side of his lips tilts up in a half-smile. Then he glances down, then up again, and when his gaze reaches my collarbone, I feel it in my stomach. Three weeks. You’d think it would dull. It hasn’t.
He clears his throat, like he’s reminding himself we’re in a store and not somewhere with fewer people and rules.
“May I?” he asks, nodding at the little stool. “Help you down.”
I nod. He steps in, and I put my hand in his. The contact is small, and it feels enormous. He holds while I ease off the stool, careful of the hem. When both heels find the carpet, we don’t let go right away.
The music shifts into something slow. Strings and piano glide together in a slow tune. His thumb presses once against my knuckles, barely there, but I feel it.
“This is dangerous,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. His other hand settles at my waist, and we do a slow turn that makes the skirt circle my legs.
I should laugh it off. I don’t. I slide my free hand to his shoulder, and we move a step, then another.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“Occupational hazard,” he says. “Galas, fundraisers.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lifts to my eyes, drops again. Heat rises under my skin as if I had stepped into sunlight.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
We keep moving anyway.
The song glides into a soft swell. His breath touches my temple. I taste metal in my mouth from wanting to speak and not.
“Does it fit?” he asks after a beat.
I don’t think he’s talking about the dress.
“It does,” I say. “Perfectly.”
“You’re going to make the room stop,” he says.
I want to roll my eyes, brush off his comment. “I doubt that,” I say hoarsely.
“I don’t,” he says. His thumb moves the smallest fraction at my waist, not quite a stroke, not quite nothing.
We turn again. In the mirror, the dress and the tux do what they were built to do: transform two humans into a story.
“I like the color,” he says, eyes on mine in the glass. “It looks like it was made for you.”
“It was made for someone who doesn’t plan on eating bread,” I say dryly.
“You can eat bread,” he says, equally dry. “You’ll still look like this.”
I shouldn’t, but I ask. “Like what?”
His gaze drops, not to my body, but to the place where our hands meet. He swallows once. “Like temptation,” he says quietly,
Heat moves through me so fast I nearly lose the step. He steadies me without making a thing of it. I get my feet back under me, and we keep time with the piano because that’s easier than trying to figure out whatever this is.
We don’t talk for a few beats. I feel the floor through the thin sole of the shoe. I feel the pulse in his wrist where my fingers rest. I feel things in places I can’t name without getting red. The scent of him is cool and clean. My mouth goes dry for a second. I breathe, and it passes.
Someone in the front laughs. The shop’s bell gives that tiny chime again. The seamstress’s voice floats back. The steamer shuts off.
“Will you dance at the ball?” I ask, and I’m shocked at myself for my boldness.
“With you?” he asks, his voice husky.
“I meant… in general,” I say quickly, then I add, because I’m done with the double-speak, “But yes.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” he says quietly.
I can’t help it. His response hurts me, and I make to pull back.
His fingers tighten around mine; his hand stays on my waist.
“Not because I don’t want to,” he says. “It would fuel the gossip mill, Olivia.”
“Why would it do that? I suspect I’ll be dancing with others,” I say.
His grip tightens again, and fire flashes through his eyes. “Not like this,” he says roughly. “I can’t stay neutral with you. If we dance together, everyone will know. I can’t let you be the subject of company gossip. People can be cruel.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll take some hits, but it won’t be the same,” he says. “You technically work for me, and you’re younger.”
We keep moving, and the mirrors shift into my view again. They catch a dozen angles. My bare shoulder, the sharp V of his lapel, the way my hand disappears in his. If I were another woman, and he were another man…
But I’m not another woman.
He lowers his voice. “I was wrong to make you carry the aftermath alone.”
My chest tightens. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he says. “Even if I didn’t mean to.” He swallows again. “It wasn’t indifference. It’s the only way I know to keep people safe.”
“And yourself,” I say, because honesty is easier when you’re dressed up and pretending you’re someone else.
“And myself,” he concedes. No defense. Just admission.
I let the information mull in my mind. “I’m okay,” I say. “For what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth a lot,” he says quietly. His hand slides along the bare skin of my back, and I shiver.
The seamstress’s cart squeaks somewhere in the workroom. It’s still far, but the sound reminds me that we can’t dance the night away. I don’t want this to end. I also don’t know how to keep it without falling apart.
We turn again, slower. The hem does that little wave the seamstress wanted. The fabric flows and settles back on me softly.
“You’re going to cause trouble,” he says, almost smiling.
“Me?” I say. “I’m pure.”
“Liar,” he says, and it’s the fondest thing I’ve ever heard from him.
He shifts our grip. Our fingers fit better that way. He looks down at our hands as if he’s memorizing them. I register the small callus at the base of his thumb. I didn’t notice it before. It’s ridiculous that it moves me.
“The cuts…” I trail off, going red. “Are they better?”
He glances up, amusement and heat in his eyes. “They are.”
“Good,” I say. The word comes out thin and hoarse. I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You did,” he says, no judgment. “I liked it.”
The room tilts and nearly takes me with it. I swallow and hold tighter.
“Olivia,” he says, softly. My name again. The way he says it blasts through me like a heat wave, leaving me aching inside.
“Roberto,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to do.
He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t even pull me closer. He lifts the hand holding mine and brings it to his mouth. He presses his lips to my knuckles, soft and quick. It is somehow more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
I forget to breathe for two heartbeats. When I remember, my inhale sounds like I’ve been running.
His hand tightens once at my waist. His head dips a little. Mine tilts up.
Fast footsteps clomp down the hall.
We come apart like we were never touching, two polite people testing fit and length. He steps back one pace. I smooth the bodice, though it doesn’t need it.
The beaded curtain clatters. The seamstress’s shoes click into the room, brisk and efficient.
“Sorry about that,” she says brightly. “I had to take care of a customer.” She turns to Roberto, taking in his tux with a sharp eye. “Mr. Conti, don’t go far. Your sleeves aren’t done.”
He nods politely. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll be nearby,” he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror for a fraction of a second before he goes. It’s enough to nearly knock me off my feet. It’s a miracle I manage to get back on the riser.
The seamstress hums again, pleased.