Chapter 7 Chapter 7: Not a Project
Ivy POV
The shop smelled like money and had that clean, expensive kind of quiet that no scented candle could fake. I moved toward a rack near the back, looking at a simple, dark blue, the kind of dress that wouldn’t draw attention or require a second mortgage.
“Not that one,” Alex said, already crossing the room before I’d even pulled it off the hanger.
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.” He reached past me and pulled a different dress from the rack entirely.
My eyebrows shot up, surprised that he would choose something so bold. It was a deep emerald dress. It was sleek and the kind of dress that looked like it belonged on a runway rather than a person who once ate noodles for six days straight to make rent. “This one,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he already decided that this is what I needed to wear.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I challenge.
“You didn’t have to,” he said, turning to hand it to me. “I’m the one paying.”
He was so calm about it.
“That’s not...” I huffed already knowing that arguing with him wouldn’t change his mind.
I snatched the dress out of his hands mostly to have the last word, flipping the little tag hanging from the sleeve out of pure habit.
My stomach dropped straight to my shoes.
“This costs more than my rent,” I said, staring at the number like it might grow zeros if I looked long enough. “For a year.”
“And?” Alex said, entirely unbothered.
“And I’m not wearing something that costs more than my entire life,” I hissed, already trying to hang it back.
He caught my wrist before I could put it back. “You’re not paying for it. Put it back on the rack again and I’ll just buy it anyway. It’s still a win-win for me. I want to see you in that dress, and I am getting it for you.”
Before I could argue further, Milo strolled back in, phone in hand, entirely too pleased with himself. “Hairdresser’s booked for four,” he announced. “Which means we need to leave in ten minutes, which means...” he clapped his hands together once for dramatic effect. “No more arguing about the dress, Ivy. You’re wearing the green one; Alex has spoken. Now go, chop-chop, off you go to the dressing room.”
“I didn’t agree to any of this,” I said, but I was already being steered toward the fitting rooms by two men who clearly weren’t used to hearing the word “no” and definitely weren’t going to start now.
I stood in front of the mirror a few minutes later in a dress that cost more than everything I owned combined, and something ugly and uncomfortable settled low in my chest. It wasn’t gratitude, not exactly, it was closer to humiliation, dressed up in expensive and fancy fabric.
I pushed the feeling aside and dragged in a deep breath.
When I stepped out of the dressing room, Alex was patiently waiting, and whatever he saw on my face made his easy expression disappear.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” I said, before I could stop myself, “but I feel like some kind of a project, not an assistant or a person, even. I feel like a thing you’re dressing up to show off at your party.”
An unknown emotion flickered across his face, surprise, maybe, like he hadn’t expected that hit to land or hadn’t realized he’d swung it in the first place.
“It’s not like that,” he said with the same deflecting tone he used on Milo when he didn’t want to sit with something uncomfortable.
“Isn’t it?” I asked and crossed my arms, careful not to wrinkle the ridiculous dress. “You picked the clothes,” I went on. “You picked the hairdresser, you picked the timeline, and I haven’t picked anything since I agreed.”
He didn’t have a smooth answer ready for that one, and for a second, he just looked at me.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “I got carried away. I wasn’t trying to make you feel like...” he sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “That wasn’t the point.” And for the first time since I’d met him, he looked almost unsure of himself.
“You don’t have to wear the dress if you don’t want to. I just wanted tonight to be easy for you...” His lips thinned, like he was already regretting everything. “And have one less thing for you to worry about.”
I hadn’t expected him to actually mean it, and somehow, that made it harder to stay annoyed at him.
“I’ll wear the dress,” I said, giving in. “But next time, ask first. I might just surprise you with my choices.”
“Deal,” he chuckled, and the smile that followed was smaller than his usual smirk; it looked closer to the real deal.
