Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
As we drove into the city, Mom’s excitement slowly grew. She was practically bouncing by the time we pulled up to the curb. To see her radiating such happy anticipation over my wedding, the wedding she’d been against for so long, made my eyes wet. I blinked back my tears and opened the door. “Come on. You get to meet a real New York fashion designer.”
When I’d first picked a designer for my custom, one-of-a-kind dress, I’d had many options. Being engaged to a billionaire opened a lot of doors. That billionaire owning the fashion magazine knocked on a lot more. But it was my status as co-editor-in-chief of Mode that had brought Pia Malik’s name to my ears. She wasn’t a big star, but she would be, someday. We’d just run a feature spread showcasing her spring collection, and I’d ended up buying almost every piece.
Pia shared a studio with three other designers on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Queens. We rang the buzzer, and Deja answered the door.
“Hey there, late to your own fitting,” she said, giving me a huge, celebratory hug. “I cannot wait. This bitch won’t let us see the dress until you do.”
“Bitch yourself,” Pia said with a laugh. She and Deja moved in similar social circles, which was how she’d come to our attention as a designer in the first place. Pia’s long, straight hair swung behind her in a shimmering curtain of jet-black silk. Her makeup was minimal as always, sharp slashes of eyeliner accentuating her slightly up-tilted eyes, just a hint of Smashbox Soft Lights on her creamy brown skin. She was the kind of beautiful that made you disappointed in yourself, no matter how good-looking you might be. And I didn’t think I was a slouch in the looks department.
She grinned at me and said, “Are you ready to see it?”
I cast a nervous glance at Deja then frowned. “Where’s Holli?”
“She’s waiting back here,” Pia said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Come on, I can’t wait to show you this.”
The studio was as open plan as it could get, with each designer taking a third of the warehouse floor. Long, rectangular windows lit the bright white space with natural sunlight. In Pia’s corner, an old doctor’s office privacy screen was wheeled center stage, and in front of it sat Holli, in menacing guard mode.
“Nobody peeked, then?” Pia asked, startling her.
Holli jumped up and slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Not a soul. I protected your dress, Sophie. You’re going to be the first to see it. Even if I had to tackle Deja to the floor.”
“Tackle? You make it sound so dramatic. Restrain is the word I would have chosen.” She stood beside my mom and me in front of the screen, and Holli flanked me on the other side.
“Okay, Sophie,” Pia warned. “Here it is.”
I gripped Holli and Deja’s hands and squeezed my eyes shut as Pia rolled the screen away. I heard Deja’s indrawn gasp and blinked my eyes open again. My heart jerked in my chest; I felt my pulse in my eyes.
There it was. The gown I was going to walk down the aisle in. The dress that I would be wearing in the very first moments of my marriage to Neil.
It was unbelievably gorgeous.
Beside me, my mom whispered, “Sophie…is it supposed to be black?”
“Well, she sure as hell can’t wear white, I’ll tell you that for free,” Holli reminded her quietly, and Mom made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes.
I couldn’t speak. The dress was so beautiful. The bodice was sleek, close fitting tan silk that shimmered like liquid pearl beneath an elaborate black lace overlay that would accentuate my slim waist and give the illusion of a much more generous bust than I actually have. The princess neckline rose into a delicate caplet strap at one shoulder, and the full skirt dripped with layers of scalloped black lace. I walked slowly around it, afraid to touch.
“Let’s try it on?” Pia asked, a note of hope in her tone.
I realized I hadn’t been reacting at all, and that to the outside observer, I might look like I was in the wrong kind of shock. I managed to nod enthusiastically. “This is… It’s…”
I burst out crying, and four sympathetic women rushed to comfort me.
“It’s early days still,” Pia tried to soothe me. “We can make changes.”
“No, no, I’m not crying because—” A hiccup interrupted me. “I’m crying because it’s perfect.”
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have done the big dress reveal the week I was ovulating. Because hormones.
“Oh my god, she’s going to make me cry,” Pia said quietly.
Holli laughed. “I’ve only ever seen her get this emotional over clothes.”
“Hey, Soph? Maybe you want to try it on, before the designer has a heart attack?” Deja suggested, and I stepped back, carefully wiping my eyes and silently thanking Urban Decay for their astonishingly waterproof makeup.