82 Choosing a dress

**Date = 1 August**
**Place = San Francisco (Trixy’s Boutique)**

**POV - Aria**

“Eh … welcome again to Trixy’s Boutique,” Trixy says, bravely attempting round two of her grand entrance.

She’s now flanked by two assistants. One is a short, round girl with cheeks like apples and an expression that says she walked through the wrong portal today and ended up in a live-action soap opera. The other is a tightly-wound forty-something with a bun so aggressive it looks like it’s trying to escape her skull — and pulling her eyelids sideways in the process.

This time, finally, Trixy has our full attention. Mainly because we’ve exhausted our daily allotment of penis jokes and rogue-whip commentary.

“I’ll be helping the little ones,” the squishy assistant says brightly, her clipboard already out and ready to conquer small chaos. “What kind of dresses did you have in mind for the flower girls?” she asks, eyes landing on me.

I glance at Leyla, who’s practically vibrating with joy on her bed. Her little pink beanie is crooked, her eyes gleaming like she’s about to ascend into heaven on a cloud of glitter and sparkles.

“Whatever they want,” I say softly, “as long as it’s pink and peach.”

“I want something poofy,” Leyla declares, “with glitter and maybe princess shoes!”

River immediately scrunches her nose like Leyla just suggested she wear a live ferret on her head. “I can go with poofy,” she replies, deadpan. “But I’m not wearing heels. I need my ankles to skate.” She follows the assistant up the stairs, Lili, with Leyla on screen, trailing after them like an excitable duckling.

“I’m with you on the shoes,” Lili chirps. “I’m too young for broken bones.”

Their guards ascend a few steps behind. It really hits me how different they are. Not just in personality, but in vibe. So are their guards. In threat level. In kill-a-man-with-a-pencil energy.

River says something, but her voice is faded, hushed. As if swallowed by the sudden silence.

Haley breaks it with a laugh that sparkles like champagne bubbles. “Oh, I love that little brat, future-daughter-in-law and all,” she gushes, waving her hand dramatically. “But her energy levels drain mine. Honestly, she bounces like a rubber ball in a tin can.”

The corners of my mouth tug upward. Is she … talking about River?

“Wait — hold on. Is River Luke’s girlfriend?” I ask, more surprised than I want to sound. Though, really, not all that surprised.

Haley groans, the theatrical kind. “Hopefully not in the next ten years,” she sighs, flopping back against her chair like she’s carrying the weight of the world. “They need to grow up first. Would not want an unexpected teen pregnancy.”

Mel laughs into her hand, eyes sparkling wickedly. “I guess you say that about all your sons’ girlfriends.”

“Oh, I’m hoping Alejandro finally lands the decent, quiet, obedient one,” Haley fires back without missing a beat, her voice sharp and sweet all at once. “Third time lucky.”

Mel snorts — a full, unladylike snort that has her shoulders shaking. “You love me, though,” she shoots back, playful, sure of it.

Haley narrows her eyes, but her mouth is already twitching. “Unfortunately, yes. Like little River, you’re impossible not to love.” She reaches over, pinching Mel’s cheek like a doting villain. “But I reserve the right to complain. It’s my motherly duty.”

Laughter rolls across the room, warmth filling the cracks the silence left behind.

“Okay, bridesmaids!” chirps the second assistant — the one with the traumatized bun — “Ready to try on some options?”

“Oh, honey, at this stage, just wrap me in anything blush-toned that doesn’t cut off circulation and we’re golden,” Mel says, flopping into a velvet chair with a grunt and patting her eight-month bump like a watermelon she’s personally growing.

The assistant laughs, flipping open a catalog.

Kiara taps on a picture without even hesitating. “How about this one?”

A Ladivine gown. Floaty. Layers of soft tulle and off-the-shoulder straps that whisper sexy and stylish. Ava and Mel both lean in and nod.

Mel narrows her eyes at the image. “Can we adjust it so it fits the melon?” She points at her stomach.

The assistant smiles. “We’ll do a few tweaks to make it bump-friendly.”

“Translation — they’re gonna add a whole damn parachute panel,” Mel mutters, but she hands over her measurements like a champ.

It takes a few minutes — and more than a few strategic pinches and tugs from the seamstress, especially around Mel’s very obvious, very pregnant tummy. Poor woman looks like she’s trying to upholster a balloon without popping it. Mel winces, then laughs, then winces again, muttering something about feeling like a turkey being trussed up for Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, Haley and I are utterly spoiled, perched on plush velvet chairs with cappuccinos crowned in ridiculous mountains of cream. The cups are warm against my palms, steam curling up like lazy ghosts. Haley keeps licking the foam off her upper lip every thirty seconds.

The air smells of espresso and sunshine, and the faint perfume of fabrics fresh from their protective bags. There’s a hush underneath it all, the soft scrape of pins, the tug of fabric being coaxed into place.

Finally, with a satisfied flourish, the seamstress whisks the last pin out of her mouth, claps her hands, and hangs three dresses on a silver rail. They sway slightly, like contestants lining up for judgment on a runway. Each one is already beautiful, but waiting to be shaped into something sharper, more personal, more fitting.

Mel heaves a sigh of relief and rubs her belly, back in her own comfortable outfit. “Thank God. If she pulled any tighter, I’d have gone into labor right here.” She falls into a chair.

Haley snickers into her cappuccino. “Now that would’ve been memorable tailoring service.”

“And now, the bride,” Trixy announces. “Do you have an idea of what you’re looking for?”

I pull out my phone, showing her a screenshot of the dress I’ve been dreaming of since I first saw it — Claire, from the Enzoani Blue collection. It’s a walking fairytale — romantic and soft with just enough sass to make my new husband drool.

“Something in this line,” I state.

Trixy lets out a little gasp of approval. “Oh, stunning. I know just the one. You go into that dressing room, and I’ll go get her.” I snicker. I’ve never had a dress with feminine pronouns before.

She points to a changing suite that looks like it belongs in a five-star castle. I disappear inside, heart thudding harder than I expected. The wedding is getting real.

“You do that, and we’ll sit out here and judge productively,” Mel calls after me, already putting up her feet and fanning herself with a bridal magazine. “Carrying a human turns your legs into pudding and your patience into sawdust.”

Looking at her? Yeah, I believe it. And also fear it.

Then it happens. I see the dress.

It’s even more breathtaking than the one in the picture — this dainty A-line beauty with a plunging sweetheart neckline, delicate 3D floral appliqués blooming across sheer lace, and the softest off-the-shoulder silk straps. Sparkling tulle underneath. A slit that says romance, but dramatic. And a corset that hugs in just the right way.

I shimmy into it with the help of the assistant, some double-sided tape, and at least one prayer.

Then I step out.

There’s a pause. A beat of actual silence.

Mel’s jaw drops. Kiara clutches her chest. Ava wipes away a tear. Even Trixy does a little gasp that ends in a squeak.

“You look … like a damn fairy queen,” Mel breathes. “A horny one, but still.”

“Fantabulous,” Kiara whispers, which is not even a real word, but somehow totally perfect.

I look in the mirror.

It’s me — but not the version who’s tired, stressed, or wondering if she deserves this joy. It’s me as I was always meant to be. Whole. Glowing. About to marry a man who’s made peace with the idea of love and now refuses to let it go.

For a second, it’s hard to breathe.

“You okay?” Ava asks quietly.

I nod, smiling. “Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

Behind us, Mel moans, “Ugh, now I’m crying from both my eyes and my boobs. Dammit.”

“Welcome to womanhood,” the assistant says kindly, handing her a tissue and a pad in one smooth motion.

Mel snatches it. “No one warned me I’d need boob diapers.”

“Wait until the baby’s born,” Trixy offers helpfully. “They become weapons.”

“Perfect,” Mel sighs. “I’ve always wanted milk-shooting cannons attached to my chest. Really seals the bridal fantasy.”

We all burst out laughing. Even Trixy.

And honestly? For the first time in a long while, the laughter feels easy. Like hope. Like healing.

Like love.

I slowly undress and hand it to Trixy. She leans forward. “I think you’re all starting to stick to me.” I grab her into a hug, and she wheezes softly from the impact.

“We will do the adjustments, and then let you know when you can pick it up,” Trixy says with a huge smile.

“When I tie the knot,” Mel says, “I’m coming to you.” Trixy’s smile spreads wider.

The little herd comes clomping back down the stairs like sugar-fueled royalty on parade. Leyla leads the charge on screen, the assistant holding the tablet in one hand and a swirl of tulle and pink satin ballet shoes in the other. So she changed her mind about the heels.

Lili twirls beside her in sparkly sneakers that light up when she spins, while River stomps confidently behind them in bubblegum-pink punk-style boots that can probably kick down a castle door.

Their matching tutu-style dresses bounce with each step, and they look like a pop-punk ballet gang ready to riot at a tea party.

It’s perfect. They’re perfect. This day is perfect.

A deep, throaty engine snarls outside — the kind that makes men weep and small children scream in joy.

“Holy ship …. a Bugatti!” River screeches like she’s just spotted a unicorn doing parkour, and then — like the absolute feral she is — she launches herself out the boutique door before any of us can react.

“SHIT!” Marco barks like a wounded Rottweiler, already in motion. Jackson’s other four explode after them, jackets flying, ground crunching. Lili shrieks and charges after the chaos, tutu flaring like a sugar-dusted cloud.

“The dresses!” one of the assistants yells in horror, but no one gives a pink, glittery damn.

We scoop up our things and strut out, bride and bridesmaids and all, casual and dignified like it’s a coordinated fashion exit. It’s not. But we try.

We file out onto the sidewalk, half laughing, half exhausted.

Across the street, the lineup gleams like a mafia showroom — a neat black-and-charcoal sports car, a black bike glinting with chrome teeth, and a new hulking black Jeep that looks like the one we came in.

And in the middle of it all — Jackson — looming. His back is to us, broad shoulders coiled, the air around him vibrating like heat off asphalt. He looks less like a man and more like some ominous god of wrath dropped onto a San Francisco sidewalk, voice sharp enough to cut steel.

Clearly, tearing into the two poor souls caught in his storm. One is big — wrapped in black leather, wearing the same frown lines as Marco, head down.

The other is … tiny. Almost comically so. Helmet tucked under one arm, balaclava still hiding their whole head except for the eyes, like a miniature henchman who took a wrong turn out of a video game.

The tension stretches across the street, thick enough to taste — metallic, sharp, almost sparking. And yet, watching them, I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. It’s like watching a thunder god scold a defiant toddler and their babysitter at the same time.

“SKY!!!” River, wild-haired and wide-eyed, is already halfway across the road, shouting like a banshee. Jackson and the small person with him turn around.

River doesn’t check for traffic. Not once. Just full send.

“RIVER, NO!” someone screams — but the child is a kamikaze missile locked on a target.

Briana grabs and clutches Lili against her chest like she’s smuggling contraband cuteness. Marco’s entire soul detaches from his body and floats into the San Francisco air like it’s trying to ascend early to heaven.

HOOOOOOONK! TOOT TOOT!

A portly man on an electric scooter — helmet askew, belly jiggling — rockets down the street like he’s fleeing a war crime. Too fast to stop.

River halts. Dead in the center of his path.

I scream, legs paralyzed, heart detaching. “RIVER!” Or at least I think it was me.

Total chaos. Blur. Motion. Power.

Jackson lunges like a panther dipped in rage. He grabs her midair, tucking her against his chest as the scooter screeches and swerves, narrowly missing both of them by a breath and a half.

The driver curses something in wild Portuguese, then spots the army of guards descending like a SWAT team and pees himself metaphorically, maybe literally, before zooming off into the sunset.

“Gmf,” I choke, biting my lip because that was mildly horrifying — but also hilarious at the same time. I think I’m clearly starting to lose my mind.

Behind me, the assistant barrels forward, clutching a handful of pink fluff like it’s holy fabric.

“The girls’ dresses — they’re — oh no — ripped!” she gasps, face mortified.

I blink. Mel doesn’t.

“Just make them a new set,” she huffs, waving a hand like she’s swatting at an annoying fly. “And charge it to the account. I’m too pregnant and tired to give a damn.”

The assistant perks up. Eyes gleaming. She’s practically tasting her commission already.

I give Mel a look. She returns it with zero shame and adds, “Your man can afford it.”

Fair.

I roll my eyes, but her words land harder than I want them to. Because, yes, Enrique can afford it. But still — shouldn’t he be a little less extravagant? Even if you’ve got endless zeroes in the bank, money doesn’t just sprout from oak trees. At least not for normal people.

The thought settles heavier than I expect. Not because I care about the money — I don’t. I’d eat dollar-store ramen and wear thrift shop shoes if it came to that. But there’s this tiny, gnawing worry in the back of my head — I’m not built from the same silk-woven world as him. He’s the prince of the television world, and I’m the ashy girl with one pair of shoes who talks to mice. Our love is a fairy tale. But what happens if it ends?

“You’re doing it again,” Mel whispers in my ear, snatching my arm. “Overthinking.”

We start across Lombard Street, the five of us linked like petals on a chain — Mel latched onto my left, Haley steady on her other side, Kiara far right, with Ava gently between us.

The afternoon sun has that golden tint to it, almost too pretty for the chaos we’ve already survived today.

It’s really a perfect day — sunlight, silk, and the illusion that we were safe.

No one noticed the way the world was holding its breath for us.