Page 24 of Claimed By Desire

My former friend looks up and manages to lower her phone. “Oh, wow, girl,amazing.”

Which is exactly what she said about the five other dresses I tried on.

The attendant fusses over me. She’s a woman in her fifties with sleek dark hair and a chic black pant suit. Her heels black on the stage as she takes measurements, tucks in stray fabric, and mutters to herself about which parts need to be altered.

Honestly, the dress is fine. I look fine in it, just like I looked fine in all the others. Nothing’s grabbing my attention, and I’m not sure that’s going to change even if I manage to find the perfect dress that makes me look like a princess.

Clothes won’t change my situation, no matter how pretty.

“What do you think?” Bianca asks me once the attendant leaves the room to gather a few more options.

I shrug at my reflection. “I don’t hate it.”

“That’s what you said about all the others.”

“It’s true.” I take a deep breath, puff out my chest, then blow it out. “I look good enough.”

“You look beautiful,” she says, genuinely smiling as she gently pulls back my hair. It’s an overly familiar gesture but feels natural coming from her for some reason. “But I get it. You’re probably not looking forward to marrying my brother.”

My eyes widen and I glance over at where Irina and Maria are back to staring at their phones. “No, I wouldn’t say that,” I say quickly.

But Bianca just gives me a look. “Come on, be honest. You think I don’t have some idea about how you’re feeling right now? I’m basically waiting to get married off any day now and it sucks.”

“Your family’s going to arrange your husband too?”

“Sooner or later. I’ve been putting them off, but I don’t think I have much time left.” She gestures as if it’s no big deal, and I have to admit I’m really impressed by how she’s handling it. I’ve basically been one big pathetic mess worrying about this for a while now, and I even ran away to Paris to avoid my first arrangement. Not the best look, really.

“It’s not that I don’t like your brother,” I say quietly, because it’s true. “I just don’t really know him, so it’s hard to get excited for the wedding.”

“I completely hear you.” She squeezes my arm. “Tell you what. How about you try on one more dress? If you like it as much as the others, that’s the one you’ll get. If you hate it, you’ll get this one. How’s that sound?”

I tilt my head and look at myself in the mirror. When I was little I pictured coming to a store like this surrounded by all my closest friends and having a good time. Instead, myclosest friendsare both ignoring me, and the only girl being kind right now is a total stranger.

“That works for me,” I say, lifting my chin.

Bianca gives me a sly smile and leans in closer. “Perfect, and once we’re done here, let’s ditch those two idiots and go for lunch. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds amazing.”

I head into the back, feeling only slightly better. But those good feelings quickly fade away as I strip down into my underwear and stare at the next outfit the attendant left out.

A sudden wave of nausea washes over me.

It comes out of nowhere. One second, I’m totally fine if emotionally vulnerable and mentally bruised, and the next I think I’m about to vomit. I shove myself into the dress, mostly because it’ll be faster to put that on than to wriggle into my clothes, and rush down the short hall to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and puke like I’ve been out drinking too long.

“What the hell?” I whisper as the nausea passes as quickly as it arrived. I flush and clean myself up before staring in the mirror.My skin’s pale and clammy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

I’m worried I’m getting sick—right up until I notice the stain on the white dress.

And I groan.

I try the rub it out, but that doesn’t help at all.

Shame washes over me as I step out of the bathroom, only to find the attendant already waiting. She gives me one look, glances at the stain, and her lips press together in a strained smile. “I suppose we’ll be taking this one,” she says primly. “Shall I take measurements and ensure it gets laundered?”

“Yes, please,” I say, feeling absolutely mortified.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”Bianca asks as our driver drops me off out front of my father’s place.

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