The showroom looked like a cathedral of couture—floor-to-ceiling glass, velvet lounges, soft classical music playing like a whispered secret. Gowns hung like reverent ghosts along chrome racks, each one more elaborate than the last. A place where fantasy wasn't just sold—it was curated.
Isla stepped quietly through the aisles, her fingers brushing over silk and tulle, pausing at a soft blush-pink gown that shimmered like morning light.
"This one," she said softly, turning it slightly. It was delicate—flowing, romantic, simple. Sweetheart neckline, embroidered waist, a subtle fall of beads that reminded her of rain. "It's beautiful."
Behind her, Caleb didn't even look up from his phone. "Mm. It's fine."
She paused, blinking. "You don't like it?"
He stepped closer, tucking his phone away and glancing over the dress with a critical eye. "It's sweet, sure. But not... spectacular."
"I thought maybe something softer," Isla tried again. "It's a private party, not a—"
"It's not prom night," he interrupted gently, smiling. "Darling, you're not seventeen. This is a high-profile engagement celebration. We'll be on a yacht with media satellites in orbit. You need something... unforgettable."
He turned, walked a few paces, and pulled a gown from the rack with the practiced confidence of someone used to making decisions for others.
"This," he said, holding it up.
The navy gown shimmered like it had been dipped in starlight. Thousands of micro-crystals were sewn into the fabric, catching the light from every angle. It looked like the night sky itself had been stitched together and cut to flatter a goddess.
The bodice was heart-shaped, structured like a corset, with sculpted boning that promised precision and glamour. Off-the-shoulder sleeves draped like liquid midnight. A thigh-high slit slashed up the side, the fabric cinching tightly at the waist, meant to cling to skin like second breath.
Even the sales associate gasped. "My god. That one's... breathtaking."
Caleb turned to Isla. "Try it on."
She hesitated. "It's... not something I would usually wear."
"That's why it works," he said. "You'll stop every heartbeat on that boat."
Isla turned back to the pink dress. Softer. Lighter. More her. But already it looked muted beside the navy one—childish, maybe. Naïve.
She wanted to argue. But the saleswoman was already steering her toward the fitting room. Caleb had already made up his mind.
As usual.
Inside the changing suite, she stepped into the navy gown.
It kissed her skin like water. The crystals shimmered with every breath. The bodice hugged her torso perfectly, lifting and shaping without constriction. The slit made her legs look endless. The neckline framed her collarbones like sculpture.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
She looked beautiful.
But also… unfamiliar.
Her reflection was a stranger's—an illusion made of glitter and sharp lines. The woman staring back at her looked like she belonged to Caleb's world, not her own. A mannequin carved into perfection, stripped of softness. The thought chilled her, and yet she smiled, because that was what he expected. Because that was what she had learned to do: bury the girl who wanted pink lace and laughter beneath layers of midnight glass.
"Let me see," Caleb called from outside.
When she stepped out, his smile was instant. Pleased. Possessive.
"There she is," he said. "My future wife."
The saleswoman pressed a hand to her chest. "It's like it was made for you."
Isla's lips parted. "It is beautiful."
Caleb came forward, circling her slowly. "No—you are. The dress just knows it."
He kissed her cheek lightly, already handing over his card.
"Wrap it," he told the attendant. "No need for her to try anything else."
Isla opened her mouth—then closed it.
She told herself it didn't matter.
She told herself she looked stunning.
She told herself she chose it.
But deep inside, she knew this wasn't choice—it was surrender. Every stitch felt like a silken shackle. Every glimmer on the fabric reminded her of chains polished to gleam. For a brief, irrational moment she imagined herself standing on the yacht's deck, lights flashing from the cameras, and instead of admiration, hearing laughter—laughter because everyone else could see the bars of the cage she was stepping into.
When Caleb glanced down at her, it wasn't a look of love, not truly. It was possession—pride in an acquisition. The kind of look a collector gave a rare jewel. Isla had always wanted to be loved like a person, not owned like a prize. And as the saleswoman carefully folded the pink dress away, she felt like she was watching the last version of herself—gentle, hopeful, free—being packed into a box she would never open again.
But when the saleswoman stepped away, Caleb's hand slid around her waist, pressing against the sculpted boning of the gown. His palm was firm, deliberate, almost claiming her ribcage as if it too belonged to him. He pulled her close, his lips brushing her ear.
"You'll be the most striking woman on that yacht," he murmured. "Not because you want to be—because I want you to be. Do you understand?"
Her chest tightened. "Yes," she whispered, though it scraped her throat.
He adjusted her posture, one hand nudging her chin upward, forcing her to look at her reflection in the mirrored wall. Together, they stared at the couple they appeared to be: polished, flawless, enviable. He stood behind her like a sculptor admiring his work, one hand still spread across her stomach. To the casual eye, it was affectionate. But Isla felt the weight of it as ownership, as though the gown was not the only thing he had purchased today.
The silk felt heavier. The crystals sharper. She fought the urge to step away, to peel his hand off her, but she stood frozen, because that's what was required. That's what love had become—obedience dressed in couture.
Caleb pressed a kiss to her temple, smiling at the reflection. "Perfect," he said, and the word did not sound like a compliment. It sounded like a verdict.