Shopping for my maid of honor dress felt like a surreal exercise in forced joy. It was the first time I'd intentionally exposed myself to a public setting. A high-end designer boutique that wasn't the office or the sterile environment of the gym.
I was still operating in a defensive mode. I wore a lightweight, long-sleeved turtleneck and wide-leg trousers, garments that covered me completely but didn't have the suffocating weight of my previous cotton armor.
Angela, bless her artistic soul, was oblivious to the internal war I was fighting, focusing entirely on textures and cuts.
"This jade satin is structurally wrong for the venue," she declared, tossing a dress back onto a rack. "We need something with a more fluid line. Something that flows, Vi. Less fortress, more fountain."
The word "fortress" hit me. That's exactly what my clothes were.
The consultant handed me a dress to try: a beautiful, deep sapphire blue silk, cut simply but elegantly. It was sleeveless, with a high neckline—a compromise that protected my neck but exposed my arms.
I stood in the dressing room, staring at the dress. My arms felt exposed. Naked. The fear was a cold, constant hum beneath my skin. I reached for the turtleneck I was wearing, needing the familiar shield.
Then I thought of the heavy bag at the gym, the solid thwack of my knuckles making contact. I thought of my voice, scratchy but strong, giving commands to Marshall. I thought of the emerald ring flashing on my hand—a promise of non-negotiable worth.
I took a deep breath, slipped off the turtleneck, and put on the sapphire dress.
When I opened the door, Angela gasped, her sketchbook dropping to the floor.
"Viola," she whispered, her eyes wide. "It's perfect. The color, the cut... and your arms."
I looked down at my bare arms…arms that were strong now, marked with the faint bruising of a fighter. They were just arms. My arms.
I managed a fragile, slightly louder whisper: "I required external maintenance. I'm experimenting with reduced coverage."
Angela didn't offer pity or excessive praise. She simply walked up to me and gently touched the emerald on my finger.
"It's a beautiful design update, Vi," she said warmly, using the endearment that had become such a comfort. "You look like the invincible woman you are."
It wasn't just the dress…it was the conscious, terrifying act of stepping out of the shadows. The fear was still there, a knot in my stomach, but for the first time, it didn't command me.
Kyle's POV
I sat in my study, the new addendum to the Unscripted Obsession manuscript open on my secured screen. Viola was in the master suite, resting after her shopping trip. I hadn't been there, but Marshall had sent an encrypted photo of her in the sapphire dress.
The image was stunning. Not just for the color or the exposed skin of her strong arms, but for the look in her eyes—a look of conscious, terrifying victory. She hadn't been dressed by a stylist…she had been freed by her own will.
I typed rapidly, the words flowing with a raw honesty I would never dare speak aloud to anyone but her.
She is beautiful not in spite of the trauma, but because of how she rebuilds after it. Her strength is an act of creation. It's not a cold, calculated response; it's a fierce, human response. The woman in the sapphire dress, the woman with the bruised knuckles and the emerald on her hand—she is my life's masterpiece, a complex, high-risk construction of courage.
She is still healing, still retreating to her silence when the day's battles are done. The final, most intimate barrier remains. We sleep together every night, separated by a deliberate, profound distance. We talk of business, of the wedding, of the weather. But we do not touch with intent. We do not make love.
And here is the unscripted truth of my obsession: I don't need to.
The physical act, the conquest, the expected variable of a relationship—it is irrelevant to the sheer, overwhelming value I hold for her. I watch her reclaim her body at the gym. I watch her whisper fierce commands on a conference call. I watch her stand, vulnerable but defiant, in that sleeveless dress.
I have never felt less entitled to her, yet I have never loved her more completely. My love for her transcends the physical boundary entirely. It is a love for her integrity, her mind, her survival. She is the foundation, not the roof. I don't need to sleep with her to feel everything I feel for her. I just need her to be safe, to be whole, and to continue existing in the world with that terrible, beautiful, unstoppable force of will.
I will wait. I will wait years, if that's her requirement. My function is simply to be the permanent, unmoving ground beneath her feet.
Angela and Marshall's wedding, a breathtakingly colorful affair that involved an outdoor gallery and a bespoke menu of experimental cuisine, passed like a beautiful, joyous blur. It was a crucial, necessary step for Viola, who stood tall in her sapphire maid of honor dress—her first public appearance with exposed arms since the incident. She spoke her toast clearly, her voice still rough, but steady and strong.
The next major event was the grand reopening of Marshall's new flagship hotel, featuring Angela's sprawling, ambitious art installation.
It was officially the day of the event, and I was finishing the knot of my tie in the master suite when Viola emerged from her dressing room. I paused, my hands still on the silk, the careful precision of the task forgotten.
The dress was a weapon of pure, uncompromising confidence: long, liquid gold silk, designed to move like water and catch every sliver of light. It was cut low in the front, revealing a graceful V-neck, and utterly backless, falling to a sharp, aggressive high thigh slit that showed off the sculpted strength of her leg.
The effect was devastating.
It wasn't just the dress; it was the woman wearing it. Her posture was erect, her chin slightly lifted, and her eyes held that old, fierce, analytical sparkle I adored. The shadow of fear was gone, replaced by the glare of polished steel.
"You look breathtaking, Love," I said, my voice deep. It was the only honest word that applied.
She walked towards me, stopping a foot away, her gaze steady. She was entirely exposed, yet utterly safe.
"Thank you, Love," she replied, her voice still a little rough, but steady and certain. "The gold is a declaration. I am whole."
"I see that," I murmured, wanting desperately to touch her, but remaining still, honoring the structure of respect we had built.
I watched her slide the emerald ring onto her finger. She then turned and walked to the full-length mirror, turning slowly to admire her own reflection. She wasn't seeking my validation; she was confirming her own.
I stepped away and picked up my notebook—the Unscripted Obsession manuscript, still a private record of my life with her. I quickly added a note under the evening's date:
~She has shed the layers. The physical armor is gone, replaced by silk and strength. The sessions at the gym were more than defense; they were the tools she used to re-architect her sense of self. She knows her value is innate, not dependent on external variables or protection.
I look at her tonight, and she is the most desirable woman I have ever known. That desire has nothing to do with whether we share a bed. It comes from watching her fight her way back to the light. The admiration I feel for her strength is a profound and enduring intimacy that surpasses any physical need. I am simply humbled to be the man she chooses to come home to.~
"We should go, Love," I called out. "Angela is waiting for her triumphant artist's debut."