The stylist arrives at nine AM with enough garment bags to outfit a small army.
Mia stands in the living room, coffee—decaf, unfortunately—in hand, watching three assistants transform the space into a makeshift boutique. Racks of dresses materialize. Shoe boxes stack like Jenga towers. A jewelry case that probably requires its own insurance policy sits on the coffee table.
"This is insane," Mia mutters.
"This is Eleanor," Alexander corrects, emerging from his office with his phone to his ear. He's been on calls since six AM, managing some crisis in Singapore. "She doesn't do anything by half measures."
A woman in head-to-toe black approaches—fifty-something, severely chic, with the assessing gaze of someone who sees people as mannequins.
"Mia Kane?" She doesn't wait for confirmation. "I'm Vivienne Moreau. Eleanor hired me to ensure you don't embarrass the family at the gala." She looks Mia up and down. "We have our work cut out for us."
"Wow. Good morning to you too."
Vivienne's lips thin. "Sarcasm won't make you fit into high society, darling. Now, let's see what we're working with. Strip to your undergarments."
"Excuse me?"
"I need to see your body type. You're pregnant, yes? How far along?"
"Fourteen weeks, and I'm not stripping for you."
"Then how am I supposed to—"
"Vivienne." Alexander's voice cuts through the room. He ends his call, pockets his phone. "Mia isn't stripping for anyone. She'll try on dresses over her clothes first. If something works, she can change in private."
Vivienne looks like she wants to argue. Something in Alexander's expression stops her.
"Fine," she says tightly. "Let's start with evening gowns. The gala is black tie, so we need something elegant but not matronly. You're young, pregnant, and frankly unknown. The dress needs to make a statement without screaming 'try-hard.'"
"So no pressure then," Mia says.
The next two hours are torture.
Dress after dress. Too tight, too loose, too formal, too casual, wrong color, wrong cut. Vivienne rejects everything with increasingly creative insults.
"You look like a cupcake."
"That color makes you look jaundiced."
"Are we dressing you for a gala or a funeral?"
Mia's patience wears thin. "Maybe if you actually listened to what I'm comfortable in—"
"Comfortable doesn't matter. Appropriate matters. Impressive matters." Vivienne holds up another dress—black, severe, absolutely not Mia. "This is Givenchy. Try it."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I said no." Mia stands her ground. "I'm not wearing something that makes me look like I'm going to a funeral. I'm pregnant, not dying."
"You're being difficult."
"You're being condescending." Mia's done. Completely done. "I appreciate Eleanor sending you. But if you can't treat me like a person instead of a problem to solve, we're finished here."
Vivienne's eyes narrow. "Do you have any idea who I am? I've dressed First Ladies. Actresses. Actual royalty. And you, some nobody artist who got knocked up, think you can dismiss me?"
The words land like slaps.
Alexander appears before Mia can respond. "Get out."
Vivienne blinks. "What?"
"You heard me. Get out. Take your dresses, your attitude, and your appalling lack of professionalism, and leave." His voice is ice. "Send my mother your bill. You're fired."
"You can't fire me. Eleanor hired me—"
"And I'm firing you. Now."
Vivienne sputters. But Marcus is already there, gesturing toward the elevator. She leaves in a storm of indignation, assistants scrambling to pack up.
Silence descends.
"You didn't have to do that," Mia says quietly.
"Yes, I did." Alexander's jaw is tight. "Nobody talks to you like that. I don't care who they've dressed or how connected they are. You're my wife. You deserve respect."
"I can fight my own battles."
"I know you can. But you don't have to anymore." He gestures at the remaining dresses. "Do you want to keep looking? I can call someone else. Someone who won't treat you like you're beneath them."
Mia looks at the racks of designer gowns. Beautiful, expensive, absolutely not her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"What do you want me to wear? Honestly. Not what Eleanor wants or what society expects. What do you want?"
Alexander considers. "I want you to feel beautiful. Confident. Like yourself." He moves closer. "I don't care if it's Givenchy or something from a vintage shop. I care that when you walk into that gala, you feel like you belong there. Because you do."
The sincerity in his voice undoes something in Mia's chest.
"I have an idea," she says. "But you have to trust me."
"I trust you."
"Even though my idea involves leaving the penthouse without security and going to Brooklyn?"
Alexander's eye twitches. "That's not trust. That's heart failure."
"So is that a yes?"
He sighs, defeated. "Marcus goes with you. Non-negotiable."
---
Grace Park's studio is in a converted warehouse in Bushwick.
Mia hasn't seen Grace in two years—not since they met at an art collective exhibition and bonded over cheap wine and expensive dreams. Grace was trying to break into fashion design. Mia was trying to break into anything that paid.
The studio is exactly as Mia remembers—organized chaos, fabric everywhere, sketches pinned to every surface. And Grace herself, standing at a cutting table, looking exactly the same. Korean-American, early thirties, purple streak in her black hair, wearing paint-splattered overalls.
She looks up when Mia enters. Does a double-take.
"Holy shit. Mia Chen?"
"Hey, Grace."
"Don't 'hey Grace' me. You disappeared for two years and now you show up—" She stops, eyes widening as she takes in Marcus hovering behind Mia. "With a bodyguard? What the hell happened to you?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time." Grace crosses her arms. "Start talking."
Mia gives her the abbreviated version. Wedding. Pregnancy. Alexander. The gala in five days where she needs to look like she belongs in high society despite very much not belonging.
Grace listens, expression cycling through shock, disbelief, and finally, calculation.
"So you married a billionaire and you need a dress," she says slowly. "And you came to me instead of some fancy designer?"
"I came to you because I trust you. And because everyone else wants to make me into something I'm not." Mia steps forward. "I need a dress that's me. That feels right. Can you do that?"
Grace is quiet for a long moment. Then she grins. "Oh honey. Can I do that? I'm going to make you the most beautiful dress those rich assholes have ever seen. And they're going to hate that they love it."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a hell yes. Get over here. Let's take measurements."
The next hour is a whirlwind. Grace measures, sketches, drapes fabric over Mia while muttering to herself. She's in her element, creative and focused.
"You're showing a little," Grace notes, hands on Mia's small bump. "We'll need to account for that. Make it subtle but not hidden. Embrace the pregnancy instead of hiding it."
"Won't that be too bold?"
"Bold is good. Bold means you're not apologizing for existing." Grace steps back, studying her sketch. "I'm thinking emerald green. It'll look stunning with your skin tone. Empire waist to accommodate the bump. Silk, something that moves. And a neckline that says 'I'm here, I matter, deal with it.'"
"That's a lot for a neckline to communicate."
"Fashion is communication, babe. And you need to communicate that you're not some scared girl who got lucky. You're Alexander Kane's wife. Act like it."
Mia laughs. "You sound like his mother."
"Except I actually like you." Grace makes more notes. "I'll need four days. Can you come back for a fitting on Thursday?"
"Grace, this is so last minute. I can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering. And—" She pauses. "I'm going to charge you. A lot. If you're married to a billionaire, I'm getting paid properly for once."
"Absolutely. Whatever you need."
"Good. Because this is going to be my breakout piece. Rich people love discovering new designers. You wear my dress to that gala, you tell people who made it, and boom—I'm on the map."
Mia hadn't thought about it that way. "You're using me for exposure."
"You're using me for a dress. It's symbiotic." Grace hugs her. "Now get out. I have work to do. And Mia? Don't let those people make you small. You're worth ten of them."
---
Alexander is pacing when Mia returns.
"You were gone for three hours," he says without preamble. "Three hours. Do you have any idea how many worst-case scenarios I imagined?"
"Sorry. Grace is a perfectionist." Mia sets down her bag. "But I have a dress. Or I will in four days."
"From a designer I've never heard of."
"From a friend who's talented and trustworthy and won't treat me like a problem to solve." Mia faces him. "Is that okay? Or do I need Eleanor's approval?"
Alexander stops pacing. "You need no one's approval but your own. If you trust this Grace person, that's enough for me."
The tension drains from Mia's shoulders. "Thank you."
"But Marcus says you refused to tell him how much the dress costs. Why?"
"Because it's none of his business."
"Mia. How much?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars."
Alexander blinks. "That's... reasonable, actually. I expected six figures."
"Fifteen thousand is reasonable to you?"
"For a custom gown for a major social event? Yes." He looks almost amused. "I was prepared to spend a hundred thousand. My mother probably budgeted for twice that."
The casual mention of those sums makes Mia's head spin. "That's obscene."
"That's our world now." Alexander moves closer. "Get used to it. You're a Kane. Money isn't supposed to be a concern anymore."
"It's still MY money. I don't want to waste it."
"Then don't think of it as waste. Think of it as investment." His hands frame her face, gentle. "You're investing in yourself. In confidence. In armor for a room full of people who want to see you fail. That's worth every penny."
When he puts it that way, it almost makes sense.
"I'm scared," Mia admits. "About the gala. About meeting all those people. About being judged and found wanting."
"Then we'll be scared together." Alexander's thumb brushes her cheek. "But Mia? They should be scared of you. You survived foster care, poverty, and my mother's interrogation. You're stronger than every person in that ballroom."
"I don't feel strong."
"Strength isn't about feeling. It's about showing up anyway." He kisses her forehead—casual, affectionate, increasingly common between them. "You've been showing up your whole life. One more night won't break you."
Mia wants to believe that.
They spend the evening quietly. Alexander works on his laptop. Mia sketches in her studio—trying to capture the dress Grace described, the vision of who she needs to be.
At some point, Alexander appears with dinner. They eat together, talking about nothing important. His day, her fitting, the baby's next appointment.
Normal. Almost.
Before bed, Mia catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looks the same—same face, same body, same person. But the context has changed. The ring on her finger. The penthouse behind her. The baby growing inside her.
She's not the same Mia who lived in Brooklyn and struggled to make rent.
She's becoming someone new.
Someone stronger.
She hopes.
In bed, Alexander reaches for her in his sleep. His arm drapes over her waist, hand settling protectively over her stomach. Still asleep, still unconscious, but reaching for her anyway.
Mia laces her fingers through his and lets herself believe they might actually make this work.
Four more days until the gala.
Four more days until she faces the world as Mrs. Alexander Kane.
Four more days to become whoever that person is supposed to be.
She closes her eyes and tries to sleep.