Pulling a few pieces out, I quickly realize that everything looks to be about my size.
Like I was expected.
Every item is stunning, exactly my style, but better quality than I’d usually buy for myself. The fabrics are luxe—the kind that don’t lose shape after a couple of washes. No fast fashion or thrift store buys here.
I notice Soren watching me from the hallway, his mouth curved as if he’s pleased to be watching me explore the wardrobe.
“You bought all this?”
“It’s easier,” he shrugs. “Wear the black one.”
I glance at the monochrome contents of the closet and then back to him, confused.
He laughs softly to himself. “Just teasing. Wear the cocktail dress.”
I scan through the clothing and spot the dress he’s talking about.
Like everything else, it’s black—but not flat black. There’s a gloss to it without being a full shine. Something ethereal about the fabric that I haven’t seen before.
To tease him, I walk to the door. “I’ll be getting changed now.” I close it gently in his face with a grin, a smirk forming on his face as the door shuts in front of him.
Yanking off my joggers and tank top, I pull the dress on over my head and, as anticipated, it fits like it was made for me.
I twirl in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, furthest from the door, and it catches the light in a way that makes it look almost liquid when I move.
The top isn’t structured like a corset, but it’s close-fitting and intentional—a soft, sculpted bodice that dips into a clean, low neckline. The mounds of my breasts hug firmly inside, a hint ofcleavage peeking out the top. Not overdone. Just enough to draw attention without trying.
Thin straps. Delicate. Almost deceptive. The fabric hugs me through the ribs and then releases at the waist, and the skirt shifts completely. Layers. Soft. Slightly chaotic.
Very me.
It’s a short, tiered tulle skirt that flares out just enough to feel playful—almost like a tutu, but darker. Less ballerina, moredon’t touch me unless I let you.
It moves when I walk.
It looks like it was designed to be pretty, and then disrupted.
And it has pockets.
Beaming, I take one last look in the mirror, nod to myself and then walk out into the living room and take another twirl, the skirt flaring, filling me with something like whimsy I haven’t felt in a while.
Soren, sitting on the couch now, nods, a lopsided grin forming as he soaks in my updated appearance. “Wow, Ivy,” he says. “You’re a vision. You always look stunning, but there’s something about this… and it fits perfectly. Just like I made sure it would.”
I head to finish getting ready, grateful my makeup made its way with me in my backpack. And while I swipe on some mascara, lipstick and eyeliner, a sense of giddiness pervades me.
Like I’m the princess in a dark story, and I can’t wait to find out what happens next.
Soren doesn’t tell me where we’re going, other than that he made a reservation. He just opens the door, steps back, and waits.
He’s dressed in a dark button-up shirt with black pants, held up by a leather belt with a silver buckle. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his strong forearms, ink curling out the cuffs.
He has his hair tied back, out of his face. And his scent, the cedar wood cologne a little stronger than before. I want to inhale him.
I hesitate—not because I don’t trust him or I’m scared of trying out new restaurants. But when I do, I like to plan. To research the crap out of the menu online. To read the reviews. To know what to expect.
I like theideaof surprises much more than the reality.
“Come on, Ivy.” There’s a hint of urgency. Like this was always the next step and I need to get with the program.