The east hall was quiet when Ava stepped in, her footsteps echoing faintly against the marble floor.
The dress stood at the center of the room on a mannequin draped in soft light, surrounded by white roses and folded silks.
For a moment, Ava simply stared.
It was beautiful too beautiful, almost unreal.
The fabric shimmered faintly beneath the light, ivory and silver interwoven like morning mist over water.
The bodice curved gently, its details intricate and delicate, the kind of craftsmanship meant to draw admiration.
The designer Valente had added more details to the dress.
A perfect dress for a perfect lie.
She walked closer, her fingers brushing the hem.
It was cold to the touch, smooth, and painfully symbolic of everything she was supposed to be, graceful, controlled and flawless.
Her throat tightened.
Behind her, the sound of footsteps broke the silence.
Clara appeared with two assistants and Valente, he had a satisfied smile on his face.
“Ah, Ms. Sinclair!” he greeted warmly, though his gaze was already scanning her face for any sign of emotion.
“There you are. We were just about to look for you. Isn’t she magnificent?” He gestured toward the gown as if it were a living thing.
Ava gave a polite nod.
“It’s… beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” he repeated, looking more than proud of his word.
“No, no…this is beyond beautiful. This is perfection. You will be perfection.”
The word struck her like a blow.
He clapped his hands, calling for the assistants.
“Come, come, we’ll do the final fitting now. Quickly, please.”
Ava stood still as they surrounded her, unzipping, adjusting, pinning.
She let them move around her as though she were just another mannequin, another body to decorate.
When they were done, she turned toward the mirror.
The reflection staring back at her didn’t look like Ava Sinclair, it looked like someone else.
Someone softer, quieter, sculpted to please the eye.
Her lips were faintly tinted, her skin flawless, her hair drawn into delicate curls that framed her face perfectly.
It should have been a dream.
Instead, it felt like a cage.
“You look stunning,” Clara said from the side, her arms folded, her tone somewhere between admiration, fatigue and a hint of jealousy
Ava didn’t respond.
Her eyes were fixed on the mirror.
And maybe she had.
______________
By late afternoon, the hall had been transformed.
The chandeliers glowed warmly overhead, and the scent of fresh linen filled the air.
The photographer’s equipment was already set up, cameras flashing and assistants moving briskly.
Ava stood near the center of the room in another gown that Clara had picked out, every thread of it was glinting under the light.
Her stomach twisted with every click of the camera.
Damian arrived a few minutes later, immaculate as ever.
His dark suit fit him perfectly, his posture composed, every movement measured.
When his eyes met hers, something unreadable flickered there.
“Mr. Cross,” the photographer said eagerly, “we’re ready when you are.”
Damian gave a curt nod and walked toward Ava.
She didn’t move, but her breath caught slightly as he stopped beside her.
“Closer,” the photographer said, his voice cheery and oblivious.
“You two look a little tense. Let’s soften it up, yes? Maybe you could take her hand, Mr. Cross?”
Ava stiffened, her fingers curling instinctively against her side.
Before she could react, Damian’s hand reached for hers.
His fingers slid over hers slowly, deliberately, and she froze.
His grip was firm, too firm, and for a moment she thought she might pull away.
But his thumb brushed her wrist, subtle and commanding, and he whispered just loud enough for her to hear:
“Stay still.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine.
She looked up at him, startled.
His face was impassive, but his eyes, those unreadable eyes, held something deeper.
Possession, perhaps or control.
The photographer circled them, calling out directions cheerfully.
“Perfect! Miss Sinclair, tilt your chin slightly… yes, just like that. Mr. Cross, look at her. Hold that pose!”
Ava’s stomach churned.
She could feel the heat of his palm against her skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his calm exterior.
Every instinct told her to pull away, but she couldn’t.
The grip wasn’t painful, but it was unyielding, an unspoken message that resistance wasn’t an option.
She tried to steady her breathing, but it came uneven.
Every flash of the camera made her feel more exposed, more unreal.
The dress felt heavier now and suffocating against her ribs.
“Closer,” the photographer urged again, his voice distant over the rush of her heartbeat. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
“A little more connection, please. We want emotion!”
Ava’s lips twitched, not into a smile but something colder.
Emotion.
He wanted emotion.
She turned her face slightly, her gaze meeting Damian’s.
For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away.
The air between them was charged, thick with things unspoken.
He was too close.
His thumb moved slightly, as if tracing the edge of her pulse.
“Good,” the photographer murmured, snapping another shot.
“Hold it right there.”
Ava swallowed hard.
She felt her heart hammering painfully in her chest.
She hated how her body betrayed her, how the touch that should have felt like restraint also burned with something she couldn’t name.
When the photographer finally stepped back, announcing, “Perfect! That’s the one,” Ava exhaled shakily and tried to pull her hand away.
Damian didn’t let go immediately.
His fingers lingered a second too long, his gaze following her as she turned her head.
“Let go,” she whispered.
He did, slowly.
“Good work, you two!” the photographer said brightly, checking his camera.
“That’ll make a perfect cover shot.”
Ava stepped back, her palms clammy, her pulse racing.
She didn’t look at Damian again as the assistants moved in to adjust her gown.
But he watched her, watched the way her shoulders trembled slightly beneath the weight of the dress, the way she avoided his eyes like the very sight of him might unravel her composure.
For a moment, he almost said her name.
Almost.
Instead, he turned away.
“We’re done here,” he said flatly.
“Send the final proofs to my office.”
“Yes, Mr. Cross,” the photographer replied, already bustling off.
Ava’s lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came.
The hall felt smaller now, the air thinner.
She stood there, still in her perfect dress, surrounded by flashes and empty praise, feeling less like a bride and more like a ghost trapped in a photograph.
And across the room, Damian looked back once, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t understand why the image of her trembling hand wouldn’t leave his mind.