Page 49 of Dirty Husband
"Look around. The manager is in the back. She'll be meeting us soon. If you need assistance."
If I need assistance. Or when I pick out something that isn't to Shep's liking.
It's hard to imagine Shep actually caring about what dress I wear. Sure, his intentions are still mysterious and vague, but since when does he care about clothes?
I do a quick walk around the shop. It's a normal size for the city. Small, but still open and airy. A podium in the middle of the room. Neat racks along the wall. Gowns sorted by design.
There aren't enough dresses to sort by color or style or size. No one wants something someone else is wearing. That's the ultimate embarrassment.
What is it like to have problems so trivial?
I shouldn't be dismissive, I know. I'm no longer a scrappy underdog. I'm already part of the elite. I shouldn't judge.
But it's hard to feel generous with these price tags surrounding me.
This dress is gorgeous—a deep rose and black floral print chiffon—and it could cover two months of expenses. Rent, food, water, electricity.
Two months of necessities or a gown for one evening.
But then I'm no longer a struggling assistant. I'm a rich man's fiancée. A year from now, I'm a millionaire.
Seven figures doesn't go as far as it used to, especially in a city this expensive, but it means never worrying about rent again.
Never fixing another peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner because I can't afford groceries.
Never camping out in front of a discount designer outlet on Black Friday because my work clothes are worn thin.
I never have to want again.
Not for material goods.
It should make me happy, relaxed, something, but it feels too unfamiliar. My whole life, I've been taught to be smart, savvy, frugal.
How can I spend five thousand dollars on a dress? Even if it is Shep's money?
I scan the racks for something cheaper. There. A coral with a distinct Marilyn Monroe vibe. Like the dress she wore inHow to Marry a Millionaire. It's fitting. And the movie has a message I need.
What's wrong with a woman wanting a rich husband? Why isn't that okay if it's okay for a man to want a beautiful wife?
It's not my style, or my color, or what flatters my figure. And I'm certainly lacking the late Ms. Monroe's effervescent charm. But I like the idea of channeling her effortless smile and her adorable giggle.
Not me at all. But someone who can laugh and bat her eyes and stay above it all. That's what I want. The only thing, besides Dad being okay, that I want. Some way to survive this year without letting it affect me.
I check the sizes. Grab my usual, one smaller, one larger. Look for the dressing room. Find a smiling woman in a designer suit.
"You must be Miss Lee," she emphasizes the Miss, like it's oh so important I'm not yet married to Shep. "I'm Alexa. I understand you need help finding a gown for tonight."
"I'm going to try this one."
Her brow furrowsit's not rightthen her expression shifts to the usual assistant smile. "You should. But will you allow me to pick a few things that better suit your look?"
"My look?"
"You're a winter darling. This pink isn't the worst. It's saturated enough. But it's awfully light. And warm. I see you more as a dark winter. I bet you look gorgeous in scarlet."
Okay… the whole season thing is vaguely familiar. Aunt Quyen was obsessed for a while. Always talking about how she was a Spring, but no one would see it, because everyone assumed Asian women were winters. But look how great she looked in yellow—only a bright spring looks that great in yellow.
She does look great in yellow. She wears some unusual styles, but she always has the perfect color for her outfit.
