Chapter 15
It was the first time I had allowed myself to say it.
Two days later, the final gown was completed.
The gala was that evening.
And when Gideon called to tell me the garment had arrived at Glass Tower, I was already on my way.
I had no idea how Preston would react when he saw me.
I only knew one thing.
I was finished living as though his disgust were more important than my dignity.
He Called Me a Monster. I Walked Into His Gala and Took Back My Name.
PART 4: WHEN THE RED CARPET WENT SILENT
The gown was waiting in a long black garment bag.
Gideon stood beside the window of a private suite at Glass Tower when I arrived.
He turned at the sound of the door.
"Vivian."
I was wearing a simple dark dress and carrying a small handbag.
My hair was pinned back loosely.
I had barely slept the previous night.
"You look nervous," he observed.
"I am."
"That's reasonable."
He gestured toward the garment bag.
"Would you like to see it?"
I nodded.
The designer unzipped the bag.
Midnight-blue silk caught the light.
The gown was breathtaking.
The front was elegant and restrained, with soft fabric sweeping across the neckline.
The waist was fitted without being restrictive.
The skirt fell in fluid layers that would move beautifully when I walked.
And the back was almost entirely open.
No illusion mesh.
No heavy panel.
Nothing designed to pretend my scars weren't there.
My breath caught.
Gideon watched quietly while I touched the fabric.
"It's beautiful," I whispered.
"Then try it on."
The designer helped me change in the adjoining room.
She had made every adjustment we discussed.
Nothing scraped against the sensitive skin.
Nothing pulled uncomfortably.
The silk moved with me.
When I turned toward the full-length mirror, I froze.
For several seconds, I didn't recognize myself.
The woman in the reflection had her shoulders back.
Her hair was arranged in a low, elegant twist, leaving her back completely visible.
The deep blue fabric framed a network of raised scars that no longer looked hidden or apologetic.
I stared.
My first instinct was to reach behind me and cover the damaged skin.
My hand lifted.
Then stopped.
I lowered it.
The designer watched through the mirror.
"How does it feel?"
I swallowed.
"Strange."
"Uncomfortable?"
"No."
I touched the silk at my waist.
"Just strange."