Chapter 2

Chloe stopped laughing. Her eyes went wide, and she leaned into exaggerated disbelief. "Oh, please. You? Aiden's fiancée? Did you hit your head? How delusional do you have to be to think you could ever be with someone like Aiden? You?"

The women around us couldn't help themselves.

She's right, you know—Aiden Lane is the youngest CEO of a publicly traded company in New York. The man is worth billions. A girl in a hoodie and jeans, his fiancée? That's almost funny.

Probably just some social climber who got herself hung up on. Can you imagine?

The laughter rippled through the boutique in waves.

Chloe turned away from me with a flick of her wrist, as though I were something unpleasant she'd stepped in. She snapped her fingers at the attendant. "What are you standing around for? Pack up the gown."

The attendant, caught under the pressure of Chloe's attitude, began to reach toward the rack.

"I'd strongly suggest you keep your hands where they are," I said.

The attendant went still.

Chloe narrowed her eyes and crossed the floor toward me, each step slow and deliberate—a performance of condescension.

"Are you threatening me?"

She tilted her head and smiled. "I've dealt with plenty of women who didn't know their place. But you're the first one who's managed to entertain me even a little."

She raised one finger and pointed it languidly at the floor.

"Now. Kneel down and apologize. I am Aiden's fiancée. You are not. You never will be. Get on your knees and say so, and I'll pretend none of this ever happened. I might even let you stay in this boutique for another five whole minutes."

Every woman in the room held her breath, waiting to watch me crumble.

I glanced at the spot on the floor she was pointing to, then looked back up at her.

"Kneel?" I repeated, as if she'd suggested something mildly curious. "Do you know where the last person who asked me to kneel is now?"

Chloe's smile flickered.

"In a coffin," I said pleasantly.

The air in the room turned to ice.

It took Chloe a beat to process it. Then she threw her head back and laughed again, louder this time, pivoting to play to her audience.

"Did everyone hear that? She just threatened me!" She was practically wheezing. "This is the funniest thing that's happened to me all week—some girl in discount-rack clothes thinks she can threaten Chloe Watson—"

Her laughter died.

From somewhere deeper in the boutique came the clean, measured click of heels on marble. Everyone turned.

A woman in her early fifties emerged from the VIP suite—steel-gray hair immaculately pinned, a precisely tailored charcoal dress, and the kind of quiet authority that doesn't require raising its voice.

The head attendant's face collapsed with visible relief. She hurried forward. "Madame Isabel! You're here!"

A ripple of hushed shock moved through the crowd.

Is that—is that Isabel Durand? In person?

The founder of Isabel Haute Couture? I heard she hasn't seen clients herself in over a decade.

Why would she come out to the floor?

Isabel ignored the murmurs. Her gaze passed over Chloe without stopping and landed on me. She smiled—warm, unhurried, and respectful.

"Miss Reed, I apologize for keeping you waiting. This gown is the last piece I completed myself—three months of work."

She moved to stand beside it, her expression full of quiet reverence.

"Eight hundred and twenty-seven hand-sewn South African diamonds. Antique Italian lace. One of a kind in the entire world. It was commissioned specifically for you—it cannot be transferred to anyone. Under any circumstance."

Chloe's smile curdled on her face.

"What—what does that mean? It's a dress. I'll pay double—"

Isabel didn't even look at her.

"This gown has no price. It was never for sale. From the day I began designing it, it belonged to one person, and one person alone."

She turned to the head attendant, her voice gentle but carrying the finality of a verdict.

"Going forward, Miss Reed's reservations are not to be disturbed by anyone. And if I ever hear that someone has come into my boutique and made trouble for her—"

She let her gaze move slowly across the assembled women.

"They will never be welcome here again."

Silence.

The women who had been snickering just moments ago stood stiff and muted. Several of them drifted almost imperceptibly toward the exit.

Chloe's face had gone scarlet. She hadn't expected this. But the instinct to save face overrode the instinct to run, and she yanked out her phone.

"Aiden—you need to get here, right now. Someone is humiliating me at Isabel. I need you here."

She made sure to say it loudly, throwing me a triumphant look over her shoulder before hanging up.

She folded her arms across her chest. "You wait. Aiden will be here in minutes. And then I want to see how smug you look."

I leaned back against the counter and watched her with something close to academic interest.

By all means. I was rather curious to see what kind of man would hang up on his own fiancée—and then show up for someone else.