Novelas y relatos de The Devil Wears Prada

Even the parts that didn't want to. My phone vibrated against the desk. Then again. And again. I picked it up. Princess: Dior or Chanel? Princess: Maya says the red one makes me look like a mistress. Princess: I think I like the black one. I swiped the screen open. And there were rows and rows of images, images of her. The first was Thea in a red dress that was illegal in three states. It was backless, clinging to her ass like a second skin, the fabric dipping dangerously low in the front.

He didn’t give a damn if he was her bloody husband or not. While Isla fought her inner troubles, someone else thousands miles away, was having their night. A black Lexus stopped at a rich-looking restaurant. The chauffeur opened the door for Priya while Dev climbed down himself. "I swear, I don’t even know if we’re getting married or doing a press tour," Priya complained as she adjusted her red, backless cocktail dress. "I mean, you love attention, so I don’t see why you, of all people, should be complaining about this," Dev shrugged.

he murmured against her lips, his fingers brushing the slick evidence of her arousal. Tessa’s cheeks burned, shame and desire battling within her. What was wrong with her? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. All she knew was that she wanted him—wanted him to ruin her, to make her forget every ounce of control she thought she had. Her plan was simple—seduce the devil. But as his lips trailed down her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, a dark realization crept in. The devil was already in control. As his lips moved against hers, his hand slid lower, teasing the sensitive skin between her thighs. A single tap against her clit sent a violent shudder through her, her breath hitching as a j

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” But he only turned away. “Get something appropriate ready,” he said, already walking off. “Something black, preferably.” But when dinner day arrived, she dressed. A team of stylists swept through the villa that afternoon. Hair was curled, pinned, threaded with tiny silver flowers. Her gown was a deep emerald satin that hugged her waist and shimmered like wet leaves under light. The neckline dipped elegantly, revealing just enough to be tasteful, though Ayra couldn’t help but feel like a doll.

My sheer, white veil covered my face, the fabric trailing down to my knees. My bridal gown stretched far behind me as I took slow, calculated steps toward the devil standing a short distance away. Everyone’s faces were filled with smiles, their happy expressions bringing tears to my eyes—tears I couldn’t let fall. They were all so pleased to see their king, the most handsome and powerful man in Russia’s entertainment industry, finally getting married. Everyone seemed happy. But I wasn’t.

Almost everyone from our high school attended. "Sure, I'll change," I replied, bidding her farewell. I closed my laptop, stood up, and went to pick out some clothes. I opted for high-waisted pants, a long-sleeved shirt tucked in, knee-high woolen boots, and a coat. I tied my hair into a high ponytail. I looked fine. Exiting my room, grabbing my car keys, I was startled to find someone sitting on the bench across the sidewalk, holding a cigarette. Afael.

I stood in front of the mirror staring at my reflection, a different person staring back at me. Is this really me? I stared back at the vibrant green eyes feeling both happy and nervous. The dress was a red number — the seductive shade of wine — with a high thigh slits. The back rides low having a crisscross. The sleeveless exquisite dress dips low, forming a V that gorgeously leaves enough cleavage — the whisper of feminity of the woman adorning the dress. It accentuated the curves I didn't know I had, not in a crude way but still looking hot.

Easy-peasy! ————————————————————————— I was wrong. I couldn't stand him for more than a second. What was I even thinking? It was the day of our engagement shoot and we were in a scenic outdoor location to get good pictures for the media announcement. I was all dolled up in a pretty lilac dress that hugged my curves and reached mid thighs. It had a deep sweetheart neckline. Thanks to the people he hired for styling me. I almost gasped when I looked at myself in the mirror and that's when I realised. I wasn't ugly, I just didn't have money to look like this.

That type of stuff was reserved for the Big Cheese, El Diablo, the good ol' Morning Star, and contrary to popular belief, they didn't like to wear Prada (more of a Manolo Blahnik), I'm talking about— "Lucy! Well, aren't you looking radiant today? Like a diamond in the sky!" Speaking of the Devil— "Always with your mouth, Zee." They glided into the room, the fabric of their gown barely even rippling across the floor. They were speaking through their mouthpiece for safety reasons, but I knew that wouldn't last long. "Come, we have much to talk about." "Of course."

Chloé called me over as she hung the first dress in the fitting room. “Oh, it’s fine. No need to trouble yourself. I can manage on my own.” I said and darted into the fitting room. “Are you sure -” “Yup! Don’t worry.” I quickly said and closed the curtains. That Devil could have given me a heads up before we left the hotel. I opened the curtain once I tried on the dress and stepped out to let Damiano see. “No.” He responded immediately. “Why not?” I feigned a confusion even though I already knew the answer. It was too sexy and too revealing.