Emily's POV
I leaned against the hallway wall outside the study, gasping for breath. My body was shaking violently. I couldn't believe I had done that. I had just stood up to him. I, Emily, the single mom hired to be his contracted wife, had just told one of the most powerful, intimidating men in the world that he was hiding.
Where did I get the courage? Someone needed to talk sense into him, but I was shocked that I was the one who actually did it.
My body still trembling from the adrenaline rush, I hurried to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I brought it to my lips, sipping slowly, trying to calm my nerves.
The glass was half-empty when I realized I was smiling.
Not a big smile. Just a small curve at the corners of my mouth that I couldn't quite suppress. Because underneath the fear and the adrenaline and the certainty that I'd just made a terrible mistake, there was something else, Pride.
I had left Victor Hawthorne speechless.
The smile widened as I replayed the scene.
"Mrs. Hawthorne."
I jumped, water sloshing over the rim of my glass and onto my hand. Jenkins stood in the doorway, impeccable as always in his perfectly pressed suit.
"Jenkins." I set the glass down and grabbed a towel to dry my hand. "You startled me."
"My apologies, ma'am." He said smoothly, as he moved into the kitchen. "The designer, Madame Rousseau and her assistants are here to fit you for the gown."
I nodded, setting the glass down. "Just a moment, Jenkins."
I quickly went to check on Lily. She was taking a nap, peaceful and safe. I dropped the uniform bag next to her bed and headed back to face the designer.
Madame Rousseau herself was a vision of Parisian elegance, tall and willowy with silver hair swept into an impeccable chignon. She wore all black, her sharp eyes assessing me the moment I entered.
"Ah." She glided forward, her heels clicking on the marble floor. "Mrs. Hawthorne. Finally.
Her accent was thick, each word shaped carefully in her mouth like something precious. She took my hand in both of hers, and I was surprised by how warm they were, how her grip was firm but not crushing.
"I am Madame Elise Rousseau," she said, though I already knew this. "And you, chérie, are going to be magnificent."
I blinked. "I... thank you?"
"Come, come." She gestured toward the platform with one elegant hand. "We have much work to do, and not nearly enough time. The gala is in two days, which is criminally short notice, but Mr. Hawthorne was very insistent that we make it work." She gave me a look that was almost conspiratorial. "He is a very difficult man to say no to, non?"
"Yes," I agreed softly. "Yes, he is."
Two young women emerged from behind one of the dress racks, both in their mid-twenties, both impossibly chic in that way that made me feel frumpy in my jeans and simple blouse. The first had dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail and wore bright red lipstick. The second was blonde, with cat-eye glasses and an expression of professional boredom.
"These are my assistants," Madame Rousseau said without bothering to introduce them by name. "They will take your measurements while I review the selections."
I stepped onto the platform, feeling absurdly exposed. The three-way mirror reflected me from every angle, and I tried not to look too closely. My hair was a mess from running my hands through it. My eyes were still slightly wild from the adrenaline. I looked like exactly what I was: a woman in over her head.
"Arms out, please," the dark-haired assistant said, her voice clipped and efficient.
I complied, holding my arms straight out from my sides like a scarecrow. The measuring tape came out, the old-fashioned cloth kind, not the digital laser things I'd seen on home improvement shows—and the assistants began their work.
"Bust," one called out.
"Thirty-four," the other responded, making a note on her tablet.
"Waist."
"Twenty-seven."
"Hips."
"Thirty-six."
They moved around me, their hands impersonal as they measured my inseam, my shoulders, my neck, the length from my shoulder to my wrist. I stood perfectly still, trying not to think about how this felt like being catalogued, inventoried, reduced to a series of numbers.
"Very nice proportions," Madame Rousseau murmured, studying me from across the room. "Classic hourglass. We can work with this beautifully."
She approached one of the dress racks and pulled out a gown. A simple deep sapphire blue dress beaded across the burst area.
"Try this one," she commanded, handing it to me.
The dress was heavier than I expected, the fabric cool and slippery against my hands. I took the dress into the powder room and slipped it on. When I emerged, Madame Rousseau's titled her head in disappoval immediately.
"No, no, no. The cut is all wrong. Too severe for her frame. Next!"
She had me try on several gowns, none of which quite worked. Finally, she brought out a cream-colored, off-shoulder dress with a deep, beaded V-neckline and a dangerously high slit up the front.
"Voilà," she whispered. "This is the one. Go try it."
I went into the fitting room. As I was struggling with the zipper. "Do you need assistance?" Madame Rousseau's voice came through the door.
"I've got it," I called back, though I very much did not have it.
From outside, I heard Madame Rousseau answer her phone, her voice switching to rapid French. Business, from the sound of it.
That's when the assistants started.
"She's taking forever in there," one of them said. Not whispering, exactly. Just speaking at a volume that suggested they thought I couldn't hear. Or didn't care if I could.
"What did you expect?" The second voice, slightly nasal. "She's probably never worn anything this expensive in her life. She doesn't know what to do with it."
A soft laugh. Mean-spirited. The kind girls use when they're being cruel and want to pretend they're not.
I froze, my hands still on the zipper, my heart suddenly pounding for entirely different reasons.
"She's pretty enough, I suppose," the first voice continued. I could picture her examining her nails, keeping her voice light and casual. "In that wholesome, girl-next-door way. But for Victor Hawthorne? Really?"
"I know." The second voice dropped lower, more conspiratorial. "A man like that... his wealth, his status, his legacy... and this is what he chooses? We all know why, don't we?"
The words hit like a blow.
"It's obvious." That nasal voice again, dripping with disdain. "Gold digger. She probably saw a man in a wheelchair and thought, 'Easy target.' Taking advantage of the poor man when he's vulnerable. She's completely classless."
My hands had stopped working entirely. The zipper pull was still trapped between my fingers, but I couldn't make myself move. Couldn't make myself breathe.
"Gold digger." The word Mrs. Olin had used. The accusation I'd been dreading since signing that contract.
"Now, late Sharon Hawthorne, God rest her soul..." The first voice turned wistful, almost reverent. "Sharon was elegance personified. Class, beauty, grace, everything a woman in her position should be. I did her fitting for the Children's Hospital Benefit six years ago. She wore Valentino, and she looked like royalty. There was nothing that woman couldn't wear. She commanded every room she entered."
"They were the perfect power couple," the second agreed. "I saw them once at the Metropolitan Museum Gala. The way he looked at her... like she was the only person in the world. And the way she supported him, so poised…so perfect."
Something hot and sharp pressed against the backs of my eyes. My throat felt too tight, like I was trying to swallow around glass.
"This one, though..." A pause, heavy with judgment. "Well, we'll do what we can with her. But there's only so much a dress can accomplish. Some women are simply born to wealth and sophistication, you know? They understand the unspoken rules, the expectations."
"And others..." The nasal voice finished the thought. "Others try very hard. You can always tell the difference."
Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging. Their casual cruelty cut through the confidence I had just felt facing Victor. They saw through the contract, straight to the truth: I was a woman paid to be here.
I wiped my tears and yanked the zipper up with more force than necessary, The dress closed around me like armor, hugging curves I usually tried to hide.
I smoothed the fabric over my hips with shaking hands. Took a deep breath, and stepped out.
The room went silent. Madame Rousseau's phone was still pressed to her ear, but she'd stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. The assistants' heads snapped up from whatever they'd been examining on the tablet, their expressions shifting from cruel amusement to something else.
Shock? Surprise?
I stepped onto the platform, my bare feet silent against the wood. The three-way mirror reflected me from every angle, and this time I looked...
The sapphire dress transformed me. The neckline drew the eye, yes, but not in a cheap way, in a way that suggested confidence, power. The slit revealed a long line of leg without being vulgar. The color made my skin glow, brought out depths in my eyes I'd never noticed before.
"Magnifique," Madame Rousseau breathed, her phone call completely forgotten. She ended it without preamble, crossing the room to circle me slowly. "Yes. Yes, this is the one. The color, the cut, the way it moves... absolute perfection."
She gestured sharply at her assistants. "The hem needs to come up half an inch. And take it in slightly at the waist. But otherwise..." She pressed her fingers to her lips and kissed them, a gesture of appreciation. "Flawless."
The assistants scrambled to their feet, pulling out pins and measuring tape. They wouldn't meet my eyes now. Wouldn't look at anything above my shoulders.
Good. Let them wonder if I'd heard. Let them squirm.
The door opened, and Jenkins entered carrying a silver tray with frehsly squeezed juice and small pastries. His eyes found mine immediately, and something in my expression must have given away my distress because his usual professional mask slipped for just a moment.
"Mrs. Hawthorne," he said warmly, setting the tray on the table. "You look absolutely stunning. That color was made for you. Mr. Hawthorne is a very fortunate man." His sincere compliment was a balm to my hurt feelings.
"Thank you, Jenkins. That's very kind."
"Madame Rousseau," he continued, turning to the designer. "Mr. Hawthorne requests that once you're finished, you see him in his study regarding payment. He wanted me to express his particular appreciation for accommodating such short notice."
"But of course," Madame Rousseau said, her attention still on the dress, on making minute adjustments. "It is always a pleasure to work with the Hawthorne family."
Jenkins gave a slight bow and left, taking his kindness with him..
The assistants worked in silence now, their pins flying, their measurements precise. They'd become invisible, interchangeable parts of the machine. They no longer mattered.
"I will have the alterations completed by tomorrow afternoon," Madame Rousseau promised, stepping back to admire her work. "It will be delivered here directly. And I will include several shoe options and jewelry suggestions." She smiled at me, genuine warmth in her expression. "You are going to be the most beautiful woman at that gala, chérie. Mr. Hawthorne will not be able to take his eyes off you."
"Thank you," I said, managing a gracious smile as they left. I knew I looked beautiful. But in two days, I had to wear this beauty, these lies, and face the world, all because Victor refused to face the truth.
She began packing up her supplies, directing her assistants with sharp French commands. They moved quickly, efficiently, not looking at me, not speaking. The dresses were returned to their garment bags. The shoe boxes stacked neatly. The accessories carefully wrapped.
Madame Rousseau paused at the door, her hand on the frame. "Mrs. Hawthorne? May I say something?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"I have been dressing society women for thirty years," she said quietly, her accent somehow stronger, more personal. "I have clothed princesses and politicians, heiresses and actresses. And I can always tell the difference between a woman who wears the dress and a woman who lets the dress wear her." She gestured at my reflection in the three-way mirror. "You, chérie? You wear it. Whatever anyone else thinks, remember that."
Before I could respond, she was gone, her assistants trailing after her like ducklings, their heads down.