Jennifer appears again a moment later, motioning for me to follow her back to the dressing room, and I cast a nervous glance in Ana’s direction.
“It’s fine,” she says reassuringly. “I’ll wait out here with Caterina, and I promise I’ll be nice.”
I can feel the nerves fluttering through me all over again, twisting my stomach in knots until I feel like I might be sick, but I follow Jennifer back anyway, all the way to the spacious dressing room that is already half full of lace and silk and puffy skirts.
“I’m getting married at St. Patrick’s,” I tell her quickly, remembering what Ana said. “So it has to be appropriate for that.”
“Ah.” Jennifer quickly sweeps away two of the dresses. “These won’t work then. I’ll be right back.”
I look at myself in the mirror as I wait for her. I almost don’t recognize myself. It’s not just the designer clothes, or the new hairstyle and color, but something else. My face looks drawn and pale, my entire body somehow more fragile, as if the stress of all of this is already wearing me down. I look like a frightened child, and I hate it. I don’t want to be a shrinking violet. But I also don’t want to be a part of this world that I’ve been thrust into.
Is there something in between? How do I play this game without losing myself in it?
The door opens, and Jennifer walks back in with two new dresses. “Alright, let’s get you into the first one,” she says cheerily, pulling a frothy confection of a dress off of a hanger.
I feel more vulnerable than ever as I strip out of my jeans and top, laying them neatly on a chair and leaving me in just the bra and panties that were part of what I’d chosen from the mountains of clothing brought to the penthouse yesterday. Like the designer outfit I’d worn today, my underwear is staggeringly different from the usual simple cotton bra and panties I typically wear—there was nothing like that in the options I’d been given. Instead I’m wearing light pink lace, and the effect is startling when I look in the mirror. I’m reasonably fit, slender with what I think are nice curves, but I never pay much attention to them. In the gilded mirror of the dressing room, lit up and wrapped in lace, I look—sexy.
I wonder what Luca would think, if he saw me like this.
The thought horrifies me. I shouldn’t even consider it, shouldn’t wonder for even a second what the man who is practically my jailer would think of me in lace underwear. But the curiosity lingers as I step into the first dress, no matter how hard I try to push it away.
Jennifer zips up the back, deftly hooking the first few faux buttons as she pins the back of it to fit me. “You look lovely,” she declares, but I’m not so sure.
I look like a cupcake, frankly. The dress is completely lace from the waist up with a satin lining beneath it, long-sleeved with a sweetheart neckline. The waist has a grosgrain ribbon bow, and from there the skirt froths out in layers and layers of tulle, until I look like nothing so much as the topper on a music box.
“I—don’t think this is it.”
“Well, show the others, at least,” Jennifer says enthusiastically, and I wince.
“Alright,” I agree weakly.
Ana’s face confirms what I’m feeling as I walk out—she looks as if she’s trying desperately not to laugh. Caterina’s expression is more demure, but even her mouth is twitching as I walk up onto the platform and turn to face them.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I hate it,” Ana says decisively.
“It’s—not that flattering,” Caterina adds hesitantly. “Maybe try the next one?”
“Yes,” I agree fervently.
The next dress isn’t much better, though. This one is strapless—Jennifer assures me that there are capelets and toppers that can cover up my sleeves so I don’t scandalize the priest—and the skirt reminds me of a prom gown, with tiered pickups and tiny rhinestones. Even Caterina has to clap her hand over her mouth to hide her reaction when I walk out, and Ana shakes her head violently.
“It’s hideous,” she says, looking at Jennifer. “Don’t you have anything that won’t make her look like a Barbie doll?”
“Maybe something classic,” Caterina adds. “Elegant.”
The next dress is better. It’s a plain white gown in a heavy satin, with floaty cap sleeves and a fitted bodice that flares out into a trumpet skirt. Caterina beams when I walk out, and even Ana grudgingly admits that it’s beautiful.
“It might be a little plain,” I say hesitantly, turning this way and that in the mirror. I feel guilty even suggesting that I might have opinion on a dress that I shouldn’t even want to wear, but looking at myself in this one, I feel the first glimmer of what it might be like to be a bride. To want to look beautiful on my wedding day.
“Maybe something with a little lace?” Ana suggests. “Nothing over the top, but something to make it a little more interesting.”
The next dress Jennifer pulls outhaslace, but it’s a ballgown, with a lace half-sleeved bodice and a full satin skirt big enough to hide another person in. I’m on the verge of just picking the one that was alright, when she brings out one last dress.
Like the ring on my finger, I hate to admit how much I love it once it’s on me. It’s spaghetti straps, with a sweetheart neckline that dips a little deeper than some, but not so much as to be dramatic. But the part I love the most is the fabric.
It’s a soft, off-white chiffon, lined so that my skin doesn’t show through the lace and applique, but the lining is a soft champagne color that makes you wonder, just a little. The entire dress is covered in a bold leaf and floral applique, covering the bust entirely and feathering out from the waist down into large leaves that scatter over the loose, flowing skirt.