Chapter 16 The Boutique
Valentina
The SUV pulls into a quiet street lined with glossy storefronts, the kind that whisper wealth instead of shouting it. Handcrafted signage. Frosted glass. One side gleams with tailored suits; the other, all white gowns and chandeliers.
Rosco parks at the curb and kills the engine.
Matteo glances over his shoulder, addressing no one in particular. “We’ll split here. Rosco and I need fittings next door. It’ll likely take the ladies longer,” he adds, voice smooth but clipped. “We’ll run a few errands after we’re done and come back to collect you.”
It’s polite enough on the surface—but the subtext hums: You don’t go anywhere.
I arch a brow. “Generous of you to give us permission.”
He doesn’t rise to it. Just opens his door, buttoning his jacket as he steps out. “Don’t cause trouble, Valentina.”
Carol and I exit on our side, and the contrast hits immediately. The bridal boutique is like stepping into another world—light, delicate, almost painfully soft. A bell chimes overhead as we enter, and the scent of vanilla and roses fills the air.
Everything glows.
Polished marble floors. Mannequins in gowns that could bankrupt a small nation. Mirrors from floor to ceiling. And racks upon racks of white, ivory, champagne, lace, silk, and tulle.
Carol presses a hand to her heart. “Oh, isn’t this just heavenly?”
A woman with perfectly coiffed silver-blonde hair approaches, smile bright and trained. “Good morning, ladies. Welcome to Evangeline Couture. Do you have an appointment?”
Carol gestures gracefully. “We do. For Miss Rossi.”
The woman’s smile widens when she looks at me. “Ah, yes. Mr. Genovese’s fiancée. We’ve been expecting you.”
I fight the urge to grimace. “Lucky me.”
She pretends not to hear that and gestures us toward a seating area that looks like something out of a movie—velvet couches, mirrored tables, and glasses of champagne already waiting.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll bring out a few options to start.”
Carol’s practically glowing as she sinks onto the couch. “I haven’t been in a place like this in years,” she whispers. “I feel underdressed just breathing the same air as these gowns.”
I sit beside her, legs crossed, gaze sweeping the showroom. The price tags alone could fund a small rebellion.
“So,” I murmur, “what do you think? Lace? Satin? Or maybe something in blood-red just to see Matteo’s face when I walk out?”
Carol gasps, then laughs. “You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?” I tease, but the idea makes me grin.
The attendant returns with an assistant trailing behind her, both balancing armfuls of dresses that look like they’ve been stolen from fairy tales.
“These are from our couture collection,” she explains, setting the first batch on a rack nearby. “We’ll start with a few silhouettes and see what flatters you best.”
Carol’s eyes sparkle like a kid at Christmas. “Oh, this is exciting!”
I sigh. “Exciting isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”
Carol leans closer, voice soft. “Humor me, dear. Pretend—just for a moment—that this is yours. That this is your choice. Not his.”
That stops me for a beat.
Her kindness shouldn’t sting, but it does.
Because the truth is, she’s right.
It’s likely I’ll never have a real wedding — not to a man I love, not to anyone who looks at me and actually sees me. Hell, I may never even fall in love at all.
So maybe Carol’s right. Maybe, just this once, I should let myself pretend.
Pretend this is mine.
Pretend this is the only wedding I’ll ever get to experience — as a bride, not a pawn.
I take a breath and manage a small smile. “Alright,” I whisper back. “For you.”
I stand, and the attendant ushers me toward the dressing room—a little gold-trimmed space with a pedestal, heavy curtains, and mirrors that don’t let you hide from anything. Not your face. Not your lies.
As the first dress slides over my head—silk, weightless, impossibly expensive—I catch my reflection.
For a second, I almost don’t recognize her.
The girl in the mirror looks serene. Soft. Beautiful.
But beneath all that ivory and illusion, I know the truth.
She’s just a weapon in white.
The attendant draws back the curtain, and I step out.
Carol gasps softly, hands pressed together, eyes bright with delight. “Oh, it’s beautiful, dear. Just beautiful.”
Her words are warm, genuine—but there’s no crying, oh my god that’s the one moment I’ve seen on TV. And honestly, I’m relieved.
We go through another six gowns in the next two hours—each one more elaborate than the last. Lace, satin, embroidery, crystals. Mermaid silhouettes, ball gowns, sleek sheaths. I twirl, pose, endure. After the fifth, I start to lose patience. After the sixth, I’m ready to say screw it and pick whichever one itches the least.
The consultant must see the exhaustion in my face because she perks up suddenly, eyes glinting with an idea.
“Actually… I have one more. Something special. It’s a one-of-a-kind vintage piece from an exclusive Parisian designer. Fantasy-inspired, but with modern structure. I think it might be perfect for you.”
Carol clasps her hands together. “Oh, bring it out, dear. Let’s see it!”
The consultant disappears behind a curtain and returns a few minutes later holding the dress like it’s sacred.
And maybe it is.
It’s unlike anything I’ve seen. A soft ivory gown with a corseted bodice and off-shoulder drape that melts into delicate beading across the neckline. The skirt falls in layers of gossamer tulle embroidered with tiny silver vines and pearl accents that shimmer under the light. The back dips low, framed by lace that trails into a cathedral-length train—romantic without being fragile, powerful without being severe. It looks like it belongs in a dream, not a boutique.
She helps me into it carefully, her voice low and reverent, like we’re performing a ritual. When I turn toward the mirror—
I actually gasp.
It’s… breathtaking.
The way it catches the light. The way it shapes my body. The way it feels like it was made for me.
For the first time, I don’t see a weapon or a pawn. I see a woman.
When I step out, Carol’s hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes well up immediately, though she tries to blink it back.
“Oh, my,” she whispers, her voice breaking just slightly. “I do believe that is the one, dear.”
The consultant beams. “It truly seems made for you. Look at that fit—no alterations necessary. It’s as if it’s been waiting for you all along.”
My throat tightens.
For once, I don’t analyze, calculate, or think. I just feel.
I turn back to the mirror and nod once. “Yes,” I say quietly. “I don’t care what it costs.”
A pause.
“I’m getting this dress.”