Chapter 14
"Preston says they're disgusting."
"Preston is entitled to his opinions."
Gideon's jaw tightened.
"He isn't entitled to make those opinions the measure of your worth."
I looked toward the window.
For five years, every important decision about my appearance had begun with a question.
What would Preston think?
I was suddenly exhausted by the question.
I picked up the card.
"All right."
Gideon inclined his head.
"Would you like me to arrange a fitting?"
"Yes."
"And Vivian?"
I paused.
"If you choose a backless dress, make sure it's because you want to wear it."
I nodded.
"I will."
The designer arrived the next day with fabric samples and a measuring tape.
She didn't gasp when I removed my blouse.
She didn't look away.
She asked whether certain areas were sensitive and which fabrics caused discomfort.
I told her the truth.
Some seams hurt.
Certain stiff materials rubbed against the grafts.
And I hadn't worn a truly backless dress since before the fire.
She listened.
Then she sketched.
Not a gown that concealed the shape of my body.
Not one that tried to distract from the scars.
A gown that allowed my back to remain uncovered while the fabric rested gently where my skin could tolerate it.
I watched the lines form on the page.
A clean neckline.
A fitted waist.
A long, flowing skirt.
An open back framed by delicate silk.
For the first time, I looked at an evening gown and imagined the woman wearing it as someone other than the person I used to be.
I touched the sketch.
"Can you make it in midnight blue?"
The designer smiled.
"Absolutely."
When she left, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror.
Slowly, I removed my blouse.
The scars were exactly where they had always been.
Raised.
Irregular.
Impossible to ignore.
I traced one with my fingertips.
I remembered the fire.
Preston's weight in my arms.
The heat against my back.
The desperate certainty that I couldn't leave him there.
Then I remembered how he looked at me now.
For years, I had treated the scars as the reason my marriage had failed.
But they hadn't betrayed me.
They hadn't lied.
They hadn't put another woman in my place.
They were simply the marks left by a terrible night when I had done everything I could to save someone I loved.
I stared at my reflection.
"I didn't deserve what happened afterward," I whispered.