Chapter 12

12

L IZ

The room smells like spicy cologne when I walk in wrapped in a plush white robe, wearing black underwear, and having my hair and makeup done.

Even without wearing fancy clothes, I make an impression on him.

He lifts his eyes from his phone and arches an eyebrow before depositing it in his pocket.

He wears a black fitted suit, a black dress shirt, and black shoes. His eyes look bluer than ever.

"Ready?" he asks, giving me a swift once-over.

I nod a couple of times.

He pivots slightly and removes a garment bag and a shoe box from the walk-in closet.

"I also bought a pair of shoes. Maybe you want to try them out."

The box held up well, considering how much time had passed since he had bought it, not to consider how many times it had been moved around.

He puts it to the side while I shift my focus to the garment bag.

I'm nervous, to be honest.

What if I wear something truly dated?

Some monstrosity from ten or fifteen years ago.

This purchase had been made before his marriage.

I notice the name of the high–end store on the garment bag.

So he spent all his money on an expensive dress?

My heart clenches a little. The man he talked about must've loved that woman a lot.

He opens the garment bag and scoops out a marvelous piece of timeless fashion.

My hand flies to my mouth, silencing my gasp.

"What?" I eventually murmur while his eyes twinkle with a smile.

Both my hands go to the beautiful pink dress.

I had several images in my head when he said he had a dress somewhere in his big ass house, but none of those images come even close to how amazing this outfit looks.

It's a classic design that emulates the most glam fifties fashion, with a fitted corset-style top, spaghetti straps, and a full skirt with a crinoline underneath for extra volume.

This is pure glamor.

"David…" I whisper, not believing my eyes.

This doesn't even look like a dress one would wear at a show. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for getting dressed up, but this?

This dress is perfect for a queen, a wedding party, or a special moment in someone's life.

The supple, rich satin falls smoothly while holding shape, the faintest pink color serving as the background for the butterfly outlines littering the dress.

Tiny rhinestones are sewn onto the straps and the corsage.

It looks like a unique wedding dress. I can see it paired up with diamond earrings and a huge bouquet of pink peonies.

"Elizabeth?" he says, pulling me out of my head. "Do you want to put it on? See how it fits?" he goes on gently.

"Yes, yes. Of course. Give me a second."

He holds the dress for me while I shrug off my robe and remove my bra.

The dress seems to have been recently steamed––that's how it looks.

His eyes hover over my bare chest and the tiny piece of underwear concealing my sex.

His eyes can make a nun blush, so trying to hide my flushed cheeks, I look down and take the dress from him.

He helps me put it on, and once the sexy straps sit in place, he brushes all my hair over my shoulders and steps behind me to slide my zipper up.

The dress fits like a glove.

The cups hug my chest, pushing it up a little while the fitted waistline sets off the full skirt that steals the show.

I peer down, having a hard time believing this is what I will wear tonight.

"What do you think?" he asks, and I bring my eyes to his.

"I have no words…" I murmur, running my fingers over the luxurious fabric.

A smile tugs at his lips.

"Is it that bad? Or is it that good…?" His voice trails off while he turns around and pulls open a drawer.

From inside, he retrieves a jewelry box.

"All eyes will be on me…" I say, distracted by the velvet box in his hand.

"And?"

He opens the box and scoops out a pair of diamond earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet.

"Is that a problem?" he goes on.

"No. Not at all."

I'm lying.Of course it's a problem. People will know I don't belong.

I tip my gaze down once again before staring at him, choking on emotions.

"It's a beautiful dress," I say. "She must've been a very fortunate woman."

"You'd think," he says, his voice mixed with sadness.

Something tells me that the woman's story is not that great.

"Do you want to put the shoes on?"

"Yes. Sure."

He removes the lid and pulls out a pair of pink stilettos.

A lump forms in my neck.

He clearly had something special in mind when he picked out the dress and matching shoes.

What ruined their story?

I slide my feet into the shoes, and he helps me put the jewelry on, his closeness making my knees shake a little.

Is this life baiting me, making me fall for him only to pull the rug from under me a little later?

How can I not fall for him when he touches my skin like I'm the most precious thing in the world?

How can I ignore the fact that the dress, shoes, and jewelry––maybe not the jewelry–-were meant for someone else, someone important to him, and now I'm wearing them?

He runs his eyes over me with satisfaction and pride as if I'm his woman.

Me… Elizabeth.

His fictional wife.

I wish we could go somewhere private tonight, with no company of any kind, no crowds, no public, nothing to threaten my newfound universe, blossoming happiness, and bourgeoning make–believe.

"You look perfect," he says before kissing my cheek so he won't mess with my crimson lipstick.

There is something I want to say so badly, but I'm so lost in this fantasy that my mind goes blank.

He squeezes my hand slightly to make me come to my senses.

"Oh… Yes," I mumble. "Thank you for saying that. And for all this," I say, pointing to my outfit and my jewelry.

"You're welcome. It's all yours," he says nonchalantly, and I don't know what to say.

"Let's go. We'll be late," he says, checking his watch. "The helicopter is ready."

LIZ

The first act was good, although frankly, I can't recollect much of it.

I was right.

The moment we walked in and claimed our seats, all eyes were on me. I don't know what kind of secret relationship this is if we are going out of our way to invite the paparazzi to our door.

I'm not saying I'm some socialite or something. Or that he is some sort of celebrity, but we surely look that way.

It took me some time to get used to being as watched as the people on the stage.

Luckily we sit in the balcony section and have some privacy, although not enough.

Honestly, this is not my scene.

It's not that I don't like opera or find it entertaining.

It's just that my stress has increased tenfold since we arrived despite having him hold my hand most of the time.

The intermission is my chance to stretch my legs, leave my seat, take a stroll to the restroom, and maybe have a drink.

A drink would be great.

We rise from our seats like everyone else and head to the foyer.

The clamor echoing in the space makes for a nice change.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks while I get ready to go to the restroom.

"Champagne for me," I say with grace as if I've done this my entire life. "I need to use the bathroom first."

"Sure. I'll be over there."

He points to one of the corners.

Smiling, I suck in a short breath, nod in acknowledgment, and make a beeline for the restroom.

It's a whole process to use the toilet without ruining my dress.

I manage to leave the stall with my beautiful dress still in perfect condition before I wash my hands, check my reflection in the mirror––everything looks good––and pivot to the door.

I open it abruptly and run into a woman who has her eyes pinned on a woman in the hallway.

Startled, I jerk back while she offers me an apology and ends her conversation with the other woman.

I'm baffled that she looks familiar, although I've only briefly seen her face.

Why would she look familiar?

I don't know anyone in New York.

She turns around, her hand still on the door handle, and my eyes widen in surprise.

"Sorry for this," she says, moving her eyes over me.

My dress quickly grabs her attention.

I stay still while she drops the door closed and moves to the sink, her eyes coming back to my dress.

"That's beautiful," the woman says while I look at her as if trying to push back a hiccup.

"Are you all right?" the woman wearing an elegant pantsuit asks.

It's her.

It's definitely her.

Her hair is dyed a cool platinum shade and reaches her shoulders. She looks like someone who has come from money and never experienced scarcity.

His ex-wife. Soon to be married. Samantha Rove.

What are the fucking chances?

What is she doing here?

What are we doing here?

‘Yes, dummy,' the voice inside my head explodes. ‘It's fall, and a lot of people go to shows. Don't they say New York is to die for?' she goes on, and I lack the energy to argue with her.

Does David know about that?

That she's here?

No, he doesn't.

Nothing in his behavior said he had the slightest idea his ex-wife would be in New York tonight.

What a shitty coincidence.

She washes her hands while I stare at her, looking weird against the wall, spooked for reasons I can't explain.

Her eyes come to me again. This time, they are suspicious, beaming with questions.

"I'm fine," I say. "Thank you for the compliment."

She cocks an eyebrow at me while patting her hands dry with a paper towel.

"I was talking about my dress," I say.

"Oh, your dress."

A smile removes the stern expression from her face.

"Where did you get it?"

She doesn't know about the dress. Not that she should know about it.

"It was a gift."

"Great taste in clothing," she comments, having no idea that she's talking about her ex-husband.

Ex-husband?

How?

How could these two people be together? And then something dawns on me, and it's strange as fuck.

His coldness and detachment.

What if it's learned behavior? What if it's something he had learned from her?

Not intentionally, of course. But it happens all the time. People live together. Things rub off.

He is not the man I met in the beginning.Some of the iciness coloring his eyes has melt off.

He seems more open to me now.He talks to me, and we do things that draw us closer.

All that aloofness has shrunk to something more manageable.

Seeing this woman and studying her expression, the unshaken confidence and strong drive evident in her eyes, it's impossible not to see how they made things work.

They were the same. For a while, at least, they were exactly the same. And now…?

He no longer needs to be stern, unemotional, and harsh, so he is tapping into a different side of himself.

Maybe it's that side of him he talked about this afternoon––the one he'd lost and grieved.

"Yes. His taste in clothing is exquisite," I say, and something must've slipped in my tone, some hint that catches her attention, but before she has the chance to comment I excuse myself, spin around, and vanish out the door.