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“Ooooh, fancy.” She sounds approving. “Snap a pic right now.”
I spread the dress out on my desk and send a photo.
“Oh my god,” Serena breathes a couple of seconds later. “This is power moves only. You will lookinsane. Like if Maleficent had a Northwestern MBA and a heart of gold.”
“You have to come over and help me with hair,” I say as my computer pings with a reply from my assistant. I stare at the screen as I see Bennett’s name on the list.
“Duh,” she replies. “After work. Just tell me what time. Also, I'm bringing backup accessories.”
“I just got confirmation that Bennett will be there.” My chest feels tight.
“OK. Then we're going full femme fatale. Men like him don't pine well. It'll be delicious.”
“I'm not going to torture him, Serena.”
“Who said anything about torture? I'm talking about justice. Natural consequences. The universe doing its thing.”
“The universe sent me a couture dress?”
“The universe wants you to look spectacular while making him suffer. Don't fight cosmic forces, Layla.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It feels rusty but real. “Lunch at one? Bloom & Brew?”
“I'll be the one plotting your epic entrance.”
After we hang up, I hold the dress up to the light. Tomorrow night, I'll walk into that ballroom knowing Bennett will be there. Breathing the same air. Probably in one of those perfectly tailored tuxedos that make my mouth go dry.
I came back to work determined to be professional. To focus on salvaging what I can for my team. But here I am, running my fingers over silk that costs more than I can fathom, already imagining his face when he sees me in it.
So much for professional distance.
My email pings. For a second, my heart races thinking it might be him. But it's just IT asking about server access. The disappointment tastes bitter.
He hasn’t contacted me since he said he’d wait. No texts. No calls.
After days of relentless pursuit, the silence feels too pointed to be peaceful.
Maybe the gala is our reckoning—the place where what’s between us either ends, or ignites.
I fold the dress back into its box like a soldier packing armor.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him again.
And everything I’ve been holding back will either shatter… or hold.
LAYLA
“Well, Ms. Carmichael, I believe we've achieved the desired effect.”
Serena steps back like an artist admiring her masterpiece. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The midnight blue dress hugs every curve before flowing to the floor like liquid starlight. My hair cascades over one shoulder in waves Serena somehow coaxed from my usual chaos.
“I look like someone who belongs at these things,” I breathe.
“You look like someone who could buy and sell these things.” Serena grins wickedly. “Which, considering your maybe-ex's net worth, might not be far off.”
I smooth my hands over the silk, still marveling at how perfectly it fits. “This had to be custom made.”
“Obviously. Which means Daddy Dearest is lying through his teeth about arranging this invitation.” She crosses her arms, satisfied with her detective work. “No way Robert Carmichael has Willa James's personal dressdesigner on speed dial. And no way either of them know your measurements the way Mr. Custom Wardrobe does.”