Chapter 8

Chapter 8

At four in the afternoon, the guest room at the end of the corridor had already been transformed into a sea of fabric color samples, rows of cosmetic boxes covering the vanity, and three assistants busily moving back and forth with their respective tools in hand. Lyonna sat upright in front of the large gold-framed mirror, her eyes closed as Madame Ivanka’s skilled fingers—the makeup artist whose name often appeared in the capital’s fashion magazines—worked deftly around her eyelids.

“You have to trust me, Miss,” Madame Ivanka said as she gently tapped the brush against Lyonna’s cheek. “Tonight, everyone in that room will forget who is supposed to be the center of attention between you and the guests from Singapore.”

Lyonna smiled faintly, her eyes still closed. “I just don’t want to become a laughingstock, Madame. Just make me look presentable.”

“Presentable?” Madame Ivanka scoffed softly, setting down her brush for a moment. “You’re going to look extraordinary. Trust my hands.”

In the corner of the room, a young designer named Farrel—whose reputation had already surpassed his age of only twenty-eight—stood holding a maroon evening gown, the silk fabric shimmering softly whenever it caught the light from the room’s lamps. The cut of the gown fell elegantly around the waist, while the front was cut low, revealing a daring amount of cleavage for a formal event like this.

“I made this specifically for Miss Lyonna’s body shape,” Farrel said proudly, hanging the gown on a hook beside the mirror. “Everyone should know that a plus-size body can look stunning too when the cut is right.”

Lyonna opened her eyes and stared at the gown for a long moment. Doubt lingered in her chest—the kind of neckline was not something she usually wore. But the image of Darren’s cold face, along with his words that had constantly criticized her body over the past two years, made something inside Lyonna grow stronger instead.

“Put it on,” she finally said, her voice firm. “I want him to see me as something other than a disgrace that has to be hidden.”

The clock showed twenty past six when Lyonna stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room, looking at her reflection one last time. Her hair was neatly styled in an updo, with a few strands deliberately left loose along the sides of her face. Her eye makeup was bold yet elegant, and the maroon gown clung perfectly to every curve of her body. Lyonna looked at herself and felt—beautiful.

The sound of the main door opening and closing could be heard faintly from downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps climbing the stairs. Lyonna took a breath, reached for the small clutch on the vanity, and stepped out of her room just as Darren appeared at the end of the corridor, still wearing his work suit, his tie slightly loosened around his neck.

Darren’s steps stopped instantly.

His eyes moved quickly from Lyonna’s face, down to her exposed shoulders, before stopping directly at the cleavage clearly visible beneath the cut of the maroon gown. His jaw tightened. Something he could not quite define—not entirely anger, but not merely ordinary displeasure either—surged through his chest, causing the hand that had been about to loosen his tie to instead curl into a fist at his side.

“Change your dress,” Darren said flatly, without beating around the bush.

Lyonna blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Darren stepped forward, his eyes still unable to completely tear themselves away from Lyonna’s figure, even though his expression remained as cold as usual. “The guests will arrive in half an hour. Change your dress now.”

“Is something wrong?” Lyonna looked straight at him, her hand instinctively moving across her chest, though she quickly lowered it again, refusing to show her discomfort in front of Darren. “I’ve been preparing this all day. Madame Ivanka and Farrel worked hard to—”

“The dress is ugly,” Darren cut her off quickly, his voice sharp as he turned his gaze toward the window at the end of the corridor, as though he could no longer bear to look at Lyonna for much longer. “You look like a clown.”

The words struck her hard, far more painfully than they should have. Lyonna felt heat quickly spreading across her face, whether from anger or from the old wound that had been reopened. “What did you say? I look like a clown?” she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. “I think I look presentable enough to stand beside you tonight, Darren. So you won’t be embarrassed to have a wife like me. But instead, you insult me by calling me a clown.”

“Then you’re terribly wrong for choosing this dress,” Darren replied coldly, finally looking at Lyonna again, his gaze sharp and difficult to read. “Change it. Now. I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

“There’s no time to change into another dress!” Lyonna almost shouted, her hands clenched at her sides. “The guests will be here in half an hour, Darren! Do you think I can magically produce a new dress in such a short time?”

Darren did not answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on Lyonna for a long moment, his chest rising and falling as he held back something he did not say. From downstairs, the hurried sound of approaching footsteps could be heard—a servant was running lightly up the stairs, his face panicked.

“Sir, Madam,” the servant called breathlessly, “the guests from Singapore have just entered the gate!”

The time they had left vanished just like that. Lyonna stared at Darren with wide eyes, while Darren clicked his tongue softly, his hand rising to rub his face in frustration that he rarely ever showed.

“Damn it,” Darren muttered, then his eyes returned to Lyonna, this time with something more complicated than mere anger—something that only made Lyonna even more confused as she tried to read him. He stepped forward quickly, raised his hand, and before Lyonna could step back, Darren’s fingers had already reached for her shoulders, removing the thin silk shawl that had been hanging loosely from Lyonna’s arm.

“Stay still. Don’t move,” Darren ordered in a low, firm voice as he spread the shawl out, wrapping it around Lyonna’s shoulders and chest with quick yet careful movements, concealing the cleavage that had been the source of tension between them from the beginning.

Lyonna froze, not moving at all, simply staring at Darren’s face so close to hers, the distance between them suddenly feeling too thin to explain. Darren’s hand was still on her shoulder, holding the shawl in place so it would not slip, his eyes staring directly into Lyonna’s with an intensity Lyonna had never seen before.

“Why did you—” Lyonna whispered, her voice nearly disappearing.

Darren did not answer immediately. He merely lowered his head slightly, his lips stopping right beside Lyonna’s ear, close enough for Lyonna to feel his warm breath.

“Because no one else is allowed to see what should belong only to me,” he whispered, his voice so low that it sounded like a secret that had accidentally slipped out.

Lyonna held her breath, her eyes widening as she stared at Darren, who had already straightened his body, his cold expression falling back into place as though the words he had just spoken had never been uttered at all.

“Come on,” Darren said flatly, turning toward the stairs without looking back. “The guests are already waiting.”