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I start with the navy wrap dress. It’s the safest thing here—classic, well-cut, the kind of dress that says I belong without actually saying anything at all. I step into it, tie the belt at my waist, and turn to face the mirror.

It fits perfectly. The fabric drapes exactly where it’s supposed to, the color does something flattering to my skin.

“It fits,” I say. My voice comes out flat.

Carly tilts her head. “But do you feel anything in it?”

I look at myself for a beat longer. The woman in the mirror is polished and anonymous. I could be anyone.

I remove it from my body and hang the dress back up without another word.

Next are the charcoal trousers and the silk blouse I chose. The trousers are fitted through the hips and taper at the ankle, and the blouse is the same deep green I paused on earlier. I button it slowly, tuck it in, and smooth my hands down my hips.

In the mirror, my chin comes up slightly. Something in my posture has changed—my shoulders are back, my spine straighter. I look like myself, but a version of myself I’ve never met.

“There it is,” Carly says excitedly.

I almost smile, the corner of my mouth twitching before I can stop it. “I love it,” I say.

“Keep it.”

The third thing I try is the impulse grab—a deep plum wrap dress with a neckline that dips lower than anything I’ve ever owned and a back that stops just above my waist. I wasn’t sure about it when I pulled it off the rack. I’m not sure about it now, standing in the fitting room with the silk cool against my skin.

Carly whoops excitedly. “My God, Kira. You look drop-dead gorgeous,” she coos. “You’re getting that one whether you like it or not.” She nods as though her mind’s made up.

I turn to look at the back in the mirror. The fabric falls in a smooth line from my shoulders to the small of my back, leaving my skin bare. I run my thumb along the waistband, feeling the silk give under my finger.

“I’ll take it,” I say.

After that, things move faster. I ask for a blouse in a different size. Then a pair of boots with a heel low enough to walk in. Then a coat that falls to my knees and makes me feel like I could step into winter and not feel a thing.

By the time I’ve tried on and decided on everything in here, I’ve lost track of what I’m buying. There are dresses for work, dresses for going out, pants in every cut, blouses, sweaters, and probably a heap of other things I’ve already forgotten.

It’s not just a wardrobe. It’s a replacement for every single thing I owned before, and the scale of it should make me uncomfortable. It does, a little. But mostly it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something new, and for once, I’m not holding myself back.

Domenico might have said there was no limit on the credit card, but I have a feeling I’m about to put that to the test.

“Only one thing left.” Carly bounces up and down with excitement.

“What’s that?” I scrunch my nose in confusion at the implication that there’s a part of the store we haven’t been through yet.

She drags me over to the lingerie section and immediately grabs a black lace bodysuit with a look that’s half challenge, half amusement. “This is what I call a practical necessity,” she says conspiratorially. “Every wife needs at least one.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I’ll look myself,” I mumble.

I move through the racks, pushing aside pieces that make me immediately shake my head—too revealing, too stiff, too much like the black babydoll my dad forced me to take. Then I find a set in deep burgundy, the fabric so thin it’s almost sheer, with straps that cross in the back in a pattern that would leave my skin visible between the lines.

I imagine Domenico’s face if he saw me in it. The way his eyes would darken, the way his jaw would set, the way his hands would find my hips and pull me against him. The thought sends a pulse of heat between my legs so sharp I have to press my thighs together.

Before I return to the fitting room, I grab several other sets. Each one selected by me, which feels good to do.

I love every single set I try, but none as much as the burgundy—the last one. The fabric clings to every curve, the color rich against my skin, and instead of making me feel weak, or like a transaction, it makes me feel… powerful.

Carly’s eyebrows go up as I emerge from the fitting room with seven sets hung over my arm. “Well,” she says. “Someone’s feeling bold.”

“Do you think it’s too much?” I ask, immediately worrying that’s what she meant.

She just rolls her eyes. “Do you like it?” At my nod, she continues. “Then it’s not too much. It’s just right.”