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I came from money. This is—or was—my world, but the past couple of weeks with the help of some Internet sleuthing, I’ve come to understand that Prescott money and Stryker money are very different definitions of money, and I don’t want to look like Julia Roberts shooting escargot across a restaurant right now. So I keep my enthusiasm for the cake zipped up tight.
“Fantastic, we’ll let Mr. Stryker know.”
We finish our cake and tea, because no one would ever merely taste a cake like this. The self-control required is far more than I have available.
When we’ve finished, Stella returns. “Would you like for us to box up the rest for you to take home?”
“Yes, please.” I try to say it without giddy glee. We’ve only eaten about a third of the mini-cake, and there is nothing I want more than to take the rest home with me. Erica is trying to communicate in some kind of code with her eyes. I don’t know what the exact message is, but I’m sure it’s a demand that she get another piece, too.
Stella passes us each a light blue packaged moist towelette with Stella’s Bridal Boutique printed in ivory swirling script on the packaging. Obviously everyone’s hands need to be clean and dry before handling any of the gowns.
“While we box up the cake for you, you can go ahead and start browsing,” she says gesturing toward the racks as if she’s just graced us with the rarest honor. And in reality, she probably has. If it weren’t for who I’m marrying, I would be ecstatic just to be able to get inside this place.
My mother, Erica, and I make our way over to the dresses. I was right in assuming that Stella houses some of the most exclusive lines available without requiring a private appointment with the designers themselves. Oscar De La Renta, Dior, Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Marchesa, Sarah Burton, Lazaro, and Giambattista Valli, they’re all here and more.
I spot a black book on a silver side table underneath a vase of ivory flowers and realize it’s the price list.
“Don’t go through that!” My mother hisses as though I haven’t been raised properly. I’m surprised she doesn’t slap my hand.
What? I want this to cost Aidan a king’s ransom. If he’s going to demand my hand in marriage, I’m not the only one who’s going to pay.
Stella returns just as I’ve moved myself away from the book.
“Do you see anything you like?”
Screw it, I’m going for it. “What is your most expensive gown?”
My mother looks like she swallowed a frog, and Erica’s eyes are about to bug right out of her head. I know, I know… it’s tacky to ask for the most expensive thing, but I don’t care. How else will I know what maximum pain for Aidan is?
“That’ll be one of the Dior gowns.” She doesn’t seem scandalized that I’d ask this question, and guides me to the rack with the Dior. Stella picks up the book and flips through the laminated pages. She checks an identifying number and goes through the dresses until she finds the “most expensive one.”
I know I’m doing this just to get back at Aidan, but there is something thrilling about being able to wear a dress this fine—even if I hate the man making me do it. I have a feeling that on my new dark timeline, I’m going to have to take my pleasures and wins where I can get them.
“This one,” she says. “It’s four hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars.”
Erica actually gasps. My mother interrupts at this point. “I saw a lovely Carolina Herrera gown on the other rack that would look great on you, Maddie.”
I know she mentioned Herrera because she knows the most expensive Herrera couture gown isn’t likely to be over fifteen thousand, which is still a lot of money to most people for a dress, but it’s not hundreds of thousands like the Dior.
But I’m already in love with the Dior. It’s… exquisite. And I like that it isn’t actually white. I am not wearing a white dress for my wedding. I may be a virgin still, but I’m not going to advertise it. I know that’s an old-fashioned idea and plenty of people on their third marriages wear a white gown these days, but still… since I actually am a virgin, I don’t want to walk down the aisle with a silk and chiffon billboard swirling around me. No need to highlight my innocence unnecessarily as I’m given over to what I’m still choosing to think of as a mob boss.
My father said he wasn’t “Mafia exactly”. And I have no idea what the hell that means, because he seems mafia to me. Does it mean they aren’t a famous family? The Stryker name is pretty famous. Or that not everybody that works for him shares his ethnicity? Or that Stryker isn’t an Italian name? Or maybe it’s some more disorganized form of organized crime? I’m unaware of whatever purity test Aidan’s organization fails.
I push these invasive thoughts away and focus on the dress in front of me.
The Dior seems both somehow shiny and matte at the same time. It’s a rich beige silk that looks as expensive and luxurious as its price tag. The bodice is fitted and strapless with a flourish of just enough hand beading to not cover up too much of the silk. Very subtle layered ruffles come out from the waist down to the floor. The silk moves from the rich beige color into a dusty pink. There is a beige lace train with an elegant intricate design of cascading roses and pink beading. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“How does silk look like this?” I ask Stella. It’s not that I’m some bumpkin who hasn’t ever had a nice silk blouse, but this is genuinely on a whole other level.
“Oh, that’s the type of silk. It’s called Kashmir silk. It comes from the Kashmir region of India. The combination of the traditional weaving techniques and the mulberry leaves the silkworms feed on is what makes the final fabric look so lush. A single yard of the raw silk can cost thousands of dollars depending on the supplier.”
Well, that explains at least part of the price tag.
“I want to try it on.” When I asked for the most expensive gown in the shop, I hadn’t cared what it looked like. I just wanted to get some revenge on Aidan. But now that I’ve seen it… I can imagine myself walking down an aisle wearing it.
“Maddie, can I speak to you privately, please?” my mother says.
Stella, realizing what’s going on, excuses herself to give us some time.