Chapter 23
AMALIE
“The Spring Gala is in ten days.”
“And you were planning on telling me this when?”
It’s hard to keep up with Roman’s long strides. For every one step he takes, I have to take four. He speaks to me as we move through the mall, his huge frame clad in a black topcoat, other shoppers moving out of the way.
“When it was necessary. I had planned on telling you recently. But certain matters had come up.”
He leaves it at that, but I know he’s referring to Kyle. I’m still not sure what kind of decision he’s made about all of that. I assume from the fact that he hasn’t thrown me out of the house that he’s planning on keeping me around, at least for now.
“Anyway, I did tell you. Just now. It’s in ten days.”
“Sounds ominous when you put it like that.”
He snorts. “It’s not ominous. It’s necessary.”
“It can be both.”
His mouth twitches a bit. “Barinov Holdings hosts it every year. It’s one of the biggest charity events in the city.”
“For what charity?”
“Charities. Many. But the newest this year is the Chicagoland Children’s Art Initiative.”
I stop walking, taking in this new, surprising information. He pauses, too, and turns slightly toward me, giving me a minute to process it.
“It helps with funding for underprivileged schools. Art programs. Music. Sculpture. That sort of thing.”
“That’s surprisingly sweet.”
Roman glances away, as if trying to decide how to respond.
“Sasha’s a lucky boy, in many ways. He has private tutors for general education, all the art supplies a child could want, and a very capable nanny who can give him private instruction.”
It’s the nicest thing he’s said about me since the Kyle conversation. I smile on the inside but am careful not to interrupt him.
“But other children are not so lucky. The resources I can provide to Sasha have been instrumental in developing his talent. If I can help other children have access to those same sorts of resources…” He pauses, drifting off.
Then he clears his throat. “It’s my way of giving back, as the cliché goes.
And it’s what Sasha’s mother would have wanted. ”
“That’s really beautiful, Roman.”
He begins walking again. “They’re the newest addition to the charities favored by Barinov Holdings. It will be a lovely night. And you need a dress.”
He stops outside a boutique. The name is etched in gold lettering on glass so pristine it comes off as more than a little intimidating. Inside Maison Elan, everything is pale stone and soft lighting, dresses displayed like holy objects. Every mannequin is tall, thin, and long-limbed.
My stomach knots for more than one reason. “I can’t afford anything in here.”
“You’re not paying,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Okay, that’s not the only problem, though.”
He turns to me and cocks his head to the side in mild confusion. “Then what is?”
“These dresses are not made for women like me.”
His eyes sharpen as he realizes what I’m saying. “Then they will be made for you.”
“Welcome!” The shop woman approaches us with a bright smile. “How can I help you today?”
“We need a gown for a gala,” Roman says, gesturing to me. “For my companion.”
Companion. That’s accurate, I suppose.
The woman looks me over, her smile faltering just a fraction. I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“I’m happy to help, of course. But,” she sweeps her hand toward the dresses on display, “as you can see, our sizes are somewhat limited.”
My shoulders tense.
“Explain,” Roman demands.
She hesitates before continuing. “Well, our designers tend to cut for a certain female profile. For your companion, I would recommend a plus-si—”
“Your designers,” he says, cutting her off. “They work here in the store?”
“We collaborate with them. Local designers come to us when they want to sell their latest creations. And make no mistake, these are some of the finest designers in Chicago we’re talking about.”
I let my gaze drift over the gowns. They’re gorgeous, every one of them, down to the last, like something out of a dream. But none of them would fit me.
Roman steps closer to me, his hand settling at my lower back. His touch is warm and grounding, possessive in the way I secretly love.
“Then here is what we will do. My companion will choose whatever catches her eye. Then, when she decides on a dress, you will put me in contact with the designer and I will have them remake it, in her size.”
Her eyebrows raise a bit. “I see. That could be possible. What sort of time frame are we working with?”
“Ten days.”
Her eyebrows raise a bit more. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but having a dress custom-made by one of our designers on that sort of time frame would be rather expensive.”
“Cost is no object. Bring out what you have in her approximate size. Whatever needs to be done will be done. Altered, tailored, remade if necessary.” He fixes his gaze on the shop woman in that Roman sort of way. “If a dress doesn’t worship her body, burn it.”
I try not to smile. I fail.
We’re taken to the back changing area. The first dress is brought in.
It’s a gorgeous, silk, champagne-colored gown that drips over me like liquid light.
It’s tight here and there, but it fits. When I step out of the fitting room, Roman looks up and stills.
His gaze moves over me slowly, like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail.
It’s consuming and appreciating all at once.
“Turn.”
I do. He narrows his eyes, giving the matter serious thought.
“Too polite.”
The next dress is emerald. Then black velvet. Then a scandalous dress with a low back that makes me feel glamorous, sexy, and confident in a way I’m not used to.
Roman’s commentary is spare but succinct.
“Better.”
“Dangerous.”
“Getting warmer.”
By the time I try on the fourth dress, my cheeks hurt from all the blushing. By the fifth, I’m addicted to the way he looks at me when I walk out of the dressing room.
I still don’t feel quite right. The dresses are beautiful, but none of them have the “it” factor. It’s like each one is a reminder that my body isn’t made for these gowns.
I’m halfway through slipping into the next one when a wave of exhaustion hits me. I feel shoved into the dress, yet another reminder that I’m too big and take up too much space. Maybe Max showing up was the universe’s way of telling me he was right.
When the door opens, I let out a squeak of surprise.
Roman walks in, closing the door calmly behind him. “Relax. She’s on the phone.”
“You can’t just—”
“I absolutely can.” He steps closer, his eyes moving over me. “Watching you doubting yourself is becoming intolerable.”
“I’m not doubting—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “And you’re wrong.”
I open my mouth to speak but close it before a single word comes out.
Roman moves behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I feel a little silly, standing there with the dress half-pulled on. One hand settles on my waist, his thumb tracing the soft curve there.
“Look at yourself,” he says. “Really look.”
The gown clings to my waist, pushing up just a bit to where my boobs seem on the verge of pouring out of my bra. The silk clings to my belly, which rounds softly above where the top of the dress is pulled.
I feel exposed.
Roman’s palm spreads, touching more of me.
“This,” he says, “is power. You fill space exactly in the way you deserve. And not every man has what it takes to handle that.”
Warmth floods my cheeks. I don’t look away from the mirror.
He leans in, his lips near my ear. “Your breasts are perfect. Your waist is soft yet beautiful.” He moves his hand, brushing the undersides of my breasts.
His touch comes to a rest on the swell of my belly.
“All of it. It’s real. It is undeniable.
” He leans forward, placing a kiss on my shoulder, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps.
“Thank you, Roman.”
He shakes his head. “I am not doing you a favor. I’m simply explaining what you seem to be blind to.”
When Roman kisses me again, I press my backside into him. He’s hard, and a hot warmth begins to bloom between my thighs. He trails his lips along my neck. I turn, ready to press my mouth to his, when footsteps echo in the dressing area hallway.
I pull away like a guilty teenager. But Roman, a knowing smirk on his lips, is slower to take his hand from my body.
“One more gown,” he says. “I have a good feeling about this one.”
He slips out of the dressing room. Moments later, the shop woman enters with another to try on. She helps me into it, and I gasp when I look in the mirror.
“This one suits you, I think,” she says, stepping back and nodding as she speaks.
The gown is soft ivory silk that shimmers at every curve, neckline framing my bust perfectly. I look glamorous in a way I never have before. And it’s not in spite of my body. It’s because of it.
The shop woman circles around me. “A few adjustments would be in order for the perfect fit, but not much work is needed at all. Almost seems like the designer had your body in mind when she made it.” She smiles warmly.
I can’t help but beam. My heart races at the idea of showing Roman. I step out. As soon as he spots me, he leans forward a bit.
“That’s it. That’s the one.”
The next thirty minutes is a whirlwind of measurements being taken and alterations scheduled. Max’s voice feels distant now, unimportant.
Roman’s, on the other hand, is close and meaningful.
And one thing is for damn sure. Wearing that gorgeous gown, I don’t feel like an imposter. I feel like I belong, exactly as I am.