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His eyebrows draw together. “I don’t care. You’re not their ambassador. I am. The contract requires me to wear their clothes, not you.” His tone is soothing but firm.
Drawing a sigh, I nod, even though I would never dare attend their event without wearing one of the designs they sent me. Besides, it’s not like I have any other options. The only red-carpet-worthy dress I have is the one Wade bought me, and it would be a huge faux pas to wear it again so soon. I’d end up in the fashion-disaster column of Fashion Warehouse for sure.
“You can use my dressing room. It’s the third door on the right,” he says, gesturing to the corridor.
Thanking him, I grab the garment bags and enter his dressing room.
For a second, I forget all about the heavy gowns draped over my arms, because this room is heaven on earth. My own personal dream. Of course, I’d need to replace all his clothes with mine, but damn, it’s perfect. Fitted wardrobes take up three of the walls, the last one being an enormous mirror. A storage island in the middle holds transparent drawers full of cufflinks, neckties, bowties, and watches. One wardrobe contains only trainers—every colour and style imaginable. That makes me smile. Looks like we share an obsession with shoes.
I place the bags on the island and strip down. The first dress is white, and I already know it won’t work. The fabric is super thin, almost see-through. All red flags when you have curves you don’t want to show.
The second is gorgeous. It’s a dark-red mermaid dress with a lace bodice, but it looks a little tight. When I try it on, it fits, but barely. My body is compressed like sardines in a can. I take a few steps and quickly decide there’s no way I’m wearing this for an entire night. Not if I’m expected to move, talk, or breathe.
Wade knocks on the door, and I cover my body with my arms as a reflex. “Are you okay, Roxy? Can I see?”
“No! Yes! Everything’s fine. But please don’t come in. I’m not done.”
“Okay. Shout when you’re ready,” he says, and his footsteps fade.
I can’t even release a breath of relief. This thing is so tight. I fight myself out of it, careful not to rip the seams, and the feeling when it’s finally off is indescribable. Relief mixed with frustration and shame. Why can’t I have a regular figure? One that would allow me to wear whatever I want. Because you like food too much, Roxy. That’s why.
At this point, I don’t even want to try the last dress on. I hate my body so much right now, I can only assume it’s doomed from the start. I’ll just skip the event, say I’m sick or something. My heart shrivels at the thought of letting Wade down. This will be a big night for him. I’ve already committed to it. Grants are not quitters.
Reluctantly, I unzip the last bag. This gown is black, which lifts my spirits a little. Black is my colour. Black hides curves and makes you look skinnier. The problem is, it’s a knee-length bodycon dress. The aim of these types of dresses is to show your curves. I try it on, expecting it to be as tight as the other one, but surprisingly, it isn’t. It’s certainly form-fitting, but there’s room to breathe in this one.
I check myself out in the mirror. I like the long sleeves and the square neckline, which highlights my chest, but my curves are on full display. They have nowhere to hide, and I suddenly feel naked. Still, I don’t look too bad, considering. Out of the three, it’s easily the best option. I still wish I could flatten that belly, remove those love handles, and shrink my butt. Well, it shouldn’t be as bad once I have my high-waisted shapewear on.
Opening the door of the walk-in closet, I step back into the living room. Wade is lounging on the indigo sofa, scrolling on his phone.
“I think this one will do,” I mumble, crossing my arms over my chest in a vain attempt to hide my exposed body. “You can send the others back.” Then, I speed back to the closet as fast as my legs can take me.
“Roxy,” he says, calling after me with a chuckle. “Wait, I haven’t seen anything.”
I reluctantly turn around so he can have a look. He’s only a few feet away, and I’m glad there isn’t much light in the corridor.
His eyes darken, and I can’t quite read the expression behind them. “Wow. You look amazing. You always do, but this . . . I’m speechless.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I shake it off. He’s just being nice. He always says I look good, like a real boyfriend would. But he’s not my boyfriend, and it’s getting harder and harder to remember that.
I fast during the few days before the event. Well, not exactly fast—I haven’t mastered the art yet. But I’m super careful. I don’t eat carbs or sugar, and I hit the gym a couple of times.
My efforts pay off. Kinda. When I evaluate myself in the mirror before the party, I feel better than the first time I tried this dress on. Dare I say, I even look good. The glam, the heels, the shapewear, and the accessories help boost my confidence.
Wade rings the bell, and I open the door. He looks dashing in his dark-blue tuxedo and Ivory 68 trainers—the ones he’s doing the commercial for. The look surprisingly works. Then again, I have a feeling Wade could make any look work.
He shakes his head, and his eyes rove my body from head to toe. “You look . . . Wow.”
“Thanks,” I say, biting my lip. “Should we go?”
“Yes.” He offers his hand. “Ashley’s waiting in the limo. You’ll like her.”
We get to the limo, and he introduces me to his publicist. Ashley floors me with her kindness and easy manner. She compliments me on the dress, and we chat about fashion during the car ride.
“Now remember,” she says as we’re rolling up to the red-carpet event, “act like you’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Be supportive of your man, and don’t forget to smile.”
“Don’t worry, Ash. Roxy’s got this. She’s been great at it.”
I answer with a forced smile. Yeah, maybe a little too great.
