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I roll my eyes. We both know I am not going to find a dress just as nice. There is a reason one of them is four hundred and eighty four thousand dollars and the other one of them isn’t.
There is an insistent buzzing coming from inside my bag. I pull my phone out to find a text message from an unknown caller. But I know.
It’s only money, Maddie. Get whatever you want. It’s your special day after all.
I look around the shop, wondering… how? Does he have spies inside the shop? Did Stella just call him to rat on me? Does he have hidden cameras or bugs in this place? Is it an app on my phone? Are we actually being loud enough for an app on my phone to pick up what we’re saying?
He knew I was coming here today. He arranged the time, so of course he’d arrange some way to know what’s happening at my appointment. I’m even more glad right now that I didn’t make some ridiculous display over that orgasm-inducing orange cake. He’d probably love that shit.
“Who is that?” Erica asks.
I wonder if I’ve gone pale or given some indication that something’s wrong. Do they know he’s texting me? I haven’t told anyone about the texts because I don’t want to freak them out about how he even has my cell number in the first place, let alone whatever spy level wizardry he’s done on my device to have his current access to me.
“No one,” I say, shoving my phone back into the deepest recesses of my bag.
Stella returns a couple of moments later. “Did you still want to try on the Dior?”
“Yes,” I say. Some of the thrill of fucking Aidan’s bank account over is gone with his gracious permission to buy the dress, but I still want it. If he intends for me to be sold off to him, he will pay the highest price available.
“No,” my mother says, worried.
Stella looks back and forth between me and my mother as though she’s trying to figure out how to say something delicately.
“Mrs. Prescott, if it’s a concern over the price, I can assure you that Mr. Stryker put absolutely no limit on what he was willing to pay here, and he knows how expensive these dresses can go.”
“Even the Dior?” my mother says.
“Even the Dior,” Stella confirms.
“But surely he wouldn’t think she’d pick that one.”
“He was prepared to pay for whatever she wants, no matter the price. He was very insistent with me when he made the appointment, and I know from my family’s personal association with his, that he would be very displeased if he found out Madison didn’t get exactly the dress she wanted but settled for something else.”
Finally my mother relents, but not before taking a Carolina Herrera off the rack along with a Marchesa and Vera Wang for good measure. “Just try these on,” she pleads, still not willing to fully let this go. I don’t know what my father has said to her in private about the Stryker family, but she’s been walking on eggshells ever since that night. And as much as I want to fluff it off, that makes me very nervous. Does Aidan have a temper? Will his very displeased extend to me? Will I be covering bruises soon with the very best most expensive makeup?
I agree to the other dresses. Still, I’m trying on the Dior first.
Stella sends several attendants to take the chosen dresses back to the changing room.
“Myself or one of the other ladies here can help you get dressed if you need it.”
I shake my head. “No, I think I’ve got it.”
“There’s a white button in the dressing room if you change your mind. Just press it and someone will be there in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” It’s not that I’m too modest to have Downton Abbey level dressing assistance, it’s that I need privacy for other reasons.
Once I get back to the dressing room, I take a moment to gawk at the space. It’s the size of a large living room, and there’s a sofa and three full-length mirrors angled in such a way so that you can see all sides and angles of what you’re trying on. The lighting is studio lighting, the kind of lighting models get photographed under.
There is no question they want what you try on to look better in the dressing room than anywhere else—unlike the average dressing room that seems to thrill in cheap weird mirrors that make you look fat and lighting angles that give you the appearance of a mustache when you didn’t walk into the store with one.
The gowns have all been hung on a nearby rack to keep them from getting wrinkled. My mother got the other gowns in my size but I check the Dior, holding my breath. It looked about my size, and I’m thrilled to see that it is—not that sizes are some universal standard. It can be altered, but I think this one will fit. And if it doesn’t, it will be a touch too big rather than too small, which makes it easier to tailor—not that I would ever want to have any but the most experienced hands touching a work of art like this. It would be like painting corrections over the Mona Lisa.
I lock the door and dig my phone out of my bag.
Do you have cameras in the dressing room? I text.
I can almost hear his chuckle, even though I have no idea what he sounds like as an adult.