Chapter 4: The Dress Fitting

Celeste

The limousine that arrived at our house the next morning looked like it belonged in a different universe. Sleek, black, and impossibly expensive, it sat in our cracked driveway like a dark jewel among broken glass. The driver—a different one from last night—held the door open with the practiced patience of someone accustomed to waiting for uncertain brides.

"Miss Andrews, Mr. Hart has arranged your wedding preparations," he said simply, gesturing to the leather interior that probably cost more than our family car.

I climbed in, feeling Mom's worried gaze following me from the window. The ring on my finger felt foreign and heavy, catching the morning light with sharp glints that made my eyes water. Or maybe those were just tears I refused to acknowledge.

The city looked different from behind tinted windows—cleaner, more distant, like watching a movie instead of living real life. We pulled up to an address in the most exclusive shopping district, where stores didn't bother with price tags because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

Maison de Rêve. The boutique's name was etched in elegant gold script above glass doors so pristine they barely seemed to exist. Through them, I could see mannequins draped in wedding gowns that looked like they'd been spun from moonlight and dreams.

A woman appeared the moment I stepped inside, her silver hair pulled back in a chignon so tight it probably gave her migraines. She wore a dove-gray suit that screamed Parisian elegance and an expression that suggested she'd just detected something unpleasant on her designer heels.

"Miss Andrews." It wasn't a question. Her eyes—sharp and assessing—swept over my simple cotton dress and secondhand shoes with the efficiency of a scanner detecting defects. "I'm Claire Beaumont, Mr. Hart's event coordinator. We have much to accomplish and very little time."

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand.

She looked at it for a beat too long before offering a brief, cold handshake. "Indeed. This way, please."

The boutique's interior was all white marble and soft lighting, with gowns displayed like museum pieces behind glass. Each dress looked like it cost more than a car—probably more than a house in some neighborhoods. I felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a palace.

"Mr. Hart has selected three gowns for you to try," Claire said, leading me past racks of silk and lace. "He has very specific tastes and high expectations for how his bride should present herself."

His bride. The words made me feel like property, something to be dressed up and displayed.

"He chose them himself?" I asked, surprised that someone as busy as Killian would care about wedding dress details.

"Mr. Hart is involved in every aspect of his business ventures." Claire's tone made it clear she considered me exactly that—a business venture. "Including this one."

She pushed open a door to a private fitting room that was larger than my bedroom. Mirrors covered three walls, reflecting endless versions of myself—a small-town girl playing dress-up in a world she didn't belong to.

Three gowns hung on individual mannequins, each one more breathtaking than the last. But my eyes were drawn to the one in the center—a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate lace that seemed to glow in the soft lighting. The bodice was adorned with tiny crystals that caught the light like dewdrops, while the skirt flowed like water into a train that would probably need its own zip code.

"That one," I whispered before I could stop myself.

"Ah yes, Mr. Hart's first choice." Claire's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "He said you would gravitate toward it. The man knows what he wants."

Did he? Or did he just know how to predict what someone like me would choose—something beautiful but not too ostentatious, elegant but not threatening? The thought made me feel hollow.

Two assistants appeared like ghosts, helping me out of my clothes and into the gown with practiced efficiency. The silk felt cool against my skin, foreign and luxurious in a way that made me hyperaware of every imperfection in my body.

When they finally stepped back, I caught my reflection and forgot to breathe.

The girl in the mirror looked like she'd stepped out of one of my teenage sketches—the fairy tale bride I'd drawn a hundred times in the margins of notebooks. The dress transformed me into someone elegant, sophisticated, worthy of standing beside a man like Killian Hart.

But it was all a lie. I was still the same girl underneath, just wrapped in expensive packaging.

"It fits perfectly," one assistant murmured.

"Mr. Hart will be pleased," Claire added, but her tone suggested she found the whole situation distasteful. "He has excellent taste in acquisitions."

The word stung. Acquisitions. Like I was art for his collection or a company he'd purchased.

"Of course, fitting you out has disrupted his schedule considerably," Claire continued, examining her tablet with a frown. "He had to reschedule several important meetings, including lunch with Ms. Evelyn Chase."

Something cold twisted in my stomach. "Who?"

"His business partner." Claire's eyes flickered up, assessing my reaction with the interest of someone watching a lab experiment. "They've been working quite closely on the Anderson merger. Very closely. I'm surprised he didn't mention her."

Why would he? We weren't really engaged. This was a business arrangement, nothing more. But the reminder of other women in his life—beautiful, sophisticated women who belonged in his world—made the dress feel tighter, more suffocating.

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my purse. Claire's expression suggested personal calls were vulgar, but she gestured permission with one manicured hand.

"Hello?"

"Celeste." Killian's voice was different over the phone—warmer somehow, less controlled. "Claire tells me you're trying on the gowns. How are they?"

I looked at my reflection, at the beautiful fraud in the mirror. "They're... stunning."

"But do you like them?" There was something in his tone I couldn't quite identify. Concern? Genuine interest? "I can have them bring other options if these don't suit you."

The offer surprised me. I'd expected him to dictate everything, not ask my opinion. "The one in the center is beautiful. The ivory silk with the crystal beading."

A pause. "I thought you'd choose that one."

"Because it's the most expensive?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

"Because it reminded me of one of your sketches." His words hit me like a physical blow. "There was a drawing tacked to your bedroom wall. A bride in a dress very similar to this one. I noticed it when my lawyers did their initial assessment."

He'd been in my room? Seen my childish drawings of wedding dresses and fairy tale endings? The intimacy of that knowledge made me feel exposed, vulnerable.

"I didn't realize you'd been to my house," I said quietly.

"I always research my investments thoroughly." The warmth in his voice evaporated, replaced by professional distance. "I'll see you at the courthouse in two days. Claire will handle the remaining details."

He hung up before I could respond, leaving me staring at my phone and feeling foolish for thinking—even for a moment—that his thoughtfulness meant anything beyond good business practice.

"Mr. Hart is very thorough," Claire said, her tone suggesting she'd heard every word. "He believes in knowing everything about his... acquisitions. Every detail matters when building the right image."

I turned back to the mirror, studying the bride reflected there. She looked perfect—exactly what Killian Hart needed for his business arrangement. Beautiful packaging for a transaction.

But underneath all the silk and crystals and carefully chosen elegance was just me. Celeste Andrews, the girl who'd sold her dreams for her family's survival. The girl who'd promised herself she wouldn't fall for moments of unexpected kindness.

"The dress is perfect," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'll wear this one."

"Excellent." Claire made a note on her tablet. "We'll have it altered and delivered to Mr. Hart's penthouse the morning of the ceremony. Along with everything else you'll need."

As the assistants helped me out of the gown, I caught Claire watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Pity? Contempt? Curiosity about what kind of woman would agree to this arrangement?

"Ms. Beaumont," I said as I slipped back into my plain dress, "who is Evelyn Chase?"

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "I told you—Mr. Hart's business partner. They've been collaborating for months on various projects. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." But my heart hammered against my ribs. "Are they... close?"

"That's not my place to say, Miss Andrews." Claire's smile was sharp. "Though I will mention that Ms. Chase has been quite present in Mr. Hart's life lately. Very present."

The implication hung in the air like poison. I should have asked more, demanded details, but pride kept my mouth shut. This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.

But as I climbed back into the limousine, I couldn't stop thinking about Evelyn Chase—a name I didn't know attached to a woman who clearly knew Killian far better than I did. A woman who belonged in his world of glass towers and million-dollar deals.

Who was she? And why did the thought of her make this beautiful dress feel like a costume for a role I was destined to play badly?