Page 47 of Babies for the Big Shot
I step out, trying not to trip over the hem. The bodice is doing something alarming to my chest, and not in the sexy, confidence-boosting way. In the “shoved a cantaloupe into a Ziploc”way.
Bianca’s eyes light up with fake enthusiasm. “Ooooh… now that is something.”
Something.
The ultimate non-compliment.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the triple mirror and… yeah. No. I might as well be a futuristic baked potato. A haunted disco ball. One of those birthday balloons you find under the couch a week later, sad and half deflated and inexplicably sticky.
Nick glances up from his phone just long enough to blink, once, slowly. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
I retreat, tense and twitchy, every step a scramble to reclaim whatever dignity I have left.
Inside the dressing room, I stare at myself in the mirror and feel like shit. Not in the superficial “ugh, bad outfit” way. In the bone-deep “you don’t belong here and everyone knows it” way.
This boutique isn’t for me. It’s for heiresses and influencers and women who own garment steamers. Not broke twenty-six-year-olds who live off ramen and have to Google what “dry clean only” actually means.
I try not to cry. Or sweat. Or puke. Possibly all three.
Bianca taps on the door with what I assume is dress number two.
“Let’s try something a bit more elevated, darling,” she coos, sugar-slick and coaxing, the verbal equivalent of a gloved pat on the head. “We’re just getting warmed up.”
Warm’s not the word I’d use. I’m overheating under the crushing weight of self doubt and very expensive lining.
But I take the next dress anyway. Because apparently, I hate myself.
The second one’s worse.
Somehow.
It’s red. Bright red. “Emergency exit” red. “This will stain your soul” red. Slippery satin clings to every inch of my body with the insistence of a bad ex. The kind who shows up at your apartment at midnight “just to talk.”
I tug at the fabric, trying to ease it down my hips, but it grips my skin, desperate to stay. The front slit cuts high, more a threat than an invitation. The neckline plunges deep and drapes low—a style made for superheroes and fearless women, neither of which I am as I stumble through my own shadow.
But no. I look like a bloodstained shower curtain.
Still, Bianca knocks expectantly, and I panic.
So I step out.
Nick glances up from his phone again, and I catch it, just a twitch. A tiny, almost imperceptible lift of his left eyebrow. Barely there. Most people wouldn’t even notice.
But I notice.
Because it’s the universal male sign for “What in the actual hell is she wearing?”
I freeze, every nerve prickling with sharp embarrassment. Heat rushes through me, raw and unwelcome. It’s just a look, I tell myself, but in this red dress, I become the unwanted spotlight, bright, glaring, impossible to ignore.
I clear my throat. “Nope.”
Then I spin on my heel so fast I almost face plant into the dressing room wall.
Back inside, I slap both hands over my face and groan. Loudly. Dramatically. As if I’m auditioning for a telenovela titledShe Died As She Lived: Humiliated in Retail Lighting.
I press a shaky hand to my lower belly.
It’s not pain. Not exactly. Just this weird, low, twisty pressure that’s been tagging along for a few days now, an uninvited guest. A clingy, suspiciously quiet ex who shows up at your favorite brunch spot and just lingers.
