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“I don’t need measurements.”

“Cupcake.” Brandon’s fingers press firmer against my spine. “Trust me?”

I’ll always trust him, and I did say no more running. “Fine.” I exhale. “But no numbers.”

Marina nods. “Please follow me to the private fitting room.”

The space she leads us to is cavernous. Plush cream carpet, a curved velvet sofa where Brandon sprawls immediately, and more mirrors—these ones softly lit to be kind to every angle.

“I’ll bring some pieces while my assistant takes your measurements,” Marina says. “Any color preferences?”

“Not black,” Brandon answers before I can. When I turn to glare at him, he shrugs. “Let’s try something new.”

Marina disappears with a knowing smile, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over my chest.

“I can’t believe you planned this,” I say.

“Believe it.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You deserve clothes that make you feel good, not ones that punish you.”

A petite assistant enters with a measuring tape, and my stomach clenches. “Please lift your arms.”

I close my eyes as she works, trying to focus on Brandon’s presence rather than the pressure of the tape against my skin.

“All done,” the assistant says minutes later. “Marina will be right in with some selections.”

When I open my eyes, Brandon’s watching me with an intensity that makes my cheeks warm. “What?”

“You did good.” He pats the space next to him. “Come here.”

I sink into the velvet. “I still think this is unnecessary.”

“Noted and ignored.” He runs his hand up and down my thigh. “You know what I think about your current wardrobe.”

“They’re just clothes.”

“They’re weapons you use against yourself.” His voice dips, smooth as silk and just as dangerous. “And I’m done watching you hurt yourself.”

Marina returns before I can argue, rolling in a rack of clothes in colors I’d never pick for myself. Soft blues, deep greens, rich purples.

“Let’s start with this.” She holds up a silk wrap dress in a shade of burgundy that reminds me of wine.

I touch the material, surprised by its softness. “It’s beautiful, but…”

“Try it,” Brandon says. Not a command, but not quite a suggestion either.

Inside the changing area, I peel off my constricting black sheath and let the burgundy silk drape over me.

I twist in front of the mirror, trying to find the familiar pinch of fabric, the reassuring bite of a zipper holding me together. But there’s nothing, just yards of wine-colored material that floats around me like a cloud.

It’s a sensation I’m not used to. I should feel free, but as I stare at my reflection, I can’t shake the tightness in my chest. It feels wrong.

“Everything okay?” Marina asks.

I step out of the changing area, my hands smoothing down the front of the dress. Marina and Brandon are waiting, their eyes on me, and suddenly I feel exposed, like they can see straight through the silk to the mess beneath.

“Marina,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. “Please, give us a moment.”

She nods, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

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