Chapter 4: Dress Shopping
1508 Words
MIA
I don’t hate a lot of things.
But dress shopping? That one is on the list—bolded, underlined, highlighted.
Especially dress shopping in places where the price tag alone could pay my next three months’ rent.
And, of course, that is exactly where Khalid decides to take me.
He picks me up at noon in his annoyingly clean truck, wearing dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that does not need to hug his arms the way it does. I pretend I don’t notice.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
He grins. “Not really.”
Of course not.
The drive to Marina Boulevard—the place rich people shop to feel richer—makes my stomach twist. I don’t belong here. At all.
He parks in front of a boutique called Étoile.
Fancy. French. Terrifying.
“Khalid… we don’t have to go here.” My voice is embarrassing.
“Where else would we go?”
“Anywhere that doesn’t look like they would call security if I breathe too loudly?”
“Mia.” He turns to me, voice softer. “I told you I would pay for the dress. And I’m getting you something that’ll knock my family sideways. Trust me.”
There it is again. Trust.
I exhale. “Fine. But if anyone talks to me crazy, I’m walking out.”
“Deal.”
The moment we step inside, a woman approaches. Tall. Elegant. Already judging.
“Can I help you?” she asks, eyes flicking over me like I’m a stain on the marble floor.
“We are looking for a dress for a Charity Gala,” Khalid says smoothly. “Classy, nothing dramatic.”
Recognition flashes across her face. “Mr. Mansour?”
“That is me.”
Her posture changes instantly. “Of course. Right this way. What is the budget?”
“No budget,” he says.
My neck snaps toward him. “What?!”
He winks.
Claire, the suddenly friendly saleswoman, hurries off to get options.
“No budget?” I hiss.
“It is one dress.”
“One extremely unaffordable dress.”
“That you are wearing to help me. Just let me do this.” His voice gentles. “Please?”
The please destroys me.
“Fine. But no sparkly nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t let you even if you begged.”
Claire returns with five dresses and ushers me into a private fitting room that looks like a mini palace. Khalid waits outside.
Trying them on feels like stepping into someone else’s life—someone who has things figured out. Someone who isn’t… me.
The first dress: too loud.
The second: too funeral-adjacent.
The third: navy blue, off-shoulder, flowing.
I step in front of the mirror.
And stop.
I look… expensive. Confident. Like someone who doesn’t flinch when a man offers to buy her something.
I breathe out. “Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Let’s get this over with.”
I open the curtain.
Khalid’s scrolling through his phone. He looks up.
His breath catches—actually catches.
His eyes travel slowly down my body, then back up. He stands, takes a step closer.
Turn,” he says quietly.
I do. Slowly.
When I face him again, something dark and focused flickers in his eyes.
“This is the one.”
My chest tightens. “You are sure?”
“Positive.”
Claire claps like she discovered fire. Shoes, accessories, everything flies by in a blur. Before I know it, Khalid is carrying boxes and bags to the truck.
It feels unreal.
“I feel weird,” I admit once we are outside.
“Why?”
“Because you just spent… I don’t know how much.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
He leans against the truck, looking at me like he already knows every argument in my head. “Mia… you are doing me a massive favor. This is nothing compared to the peace my family will give me once they think I’ve finally settled.”
“You really think one fake girlfriend will fix that?”
“For a while.”
The sun warms my shoulders. The moment hangs between us.
“…Thank you,” I whisper. “For all of this.”
“You are welcome.”
He clears his throat. “Dinner Thursday? Go over the plan? Make sure we are on the same page?”
Dinner. My brain tries to label it. Not a date. Prep.
“Thursday works.”
He looks relieved. “Seven.”
We are too close.
I feel it.
He feels it.
His phone rings. He grimaces. “My mom.”
“Answer it.”
“I don’t want to.”
It rings again. He groans, picks up.
I hear every word—his mother’s tone sharp and suspicious.
“Yes, I’m bringing Mia… Yes, we have been seeing each other… Mom—”
He finally ends the call.
“She wants to meet you. Before the gala.”
“What?! That was not part of the deal.”
“I know. But if you don’t, she will smell blood.”
I groan. Loudly.
“Mia,” he says gently. “I will owe you. Big time.”
“You already owe me.”
“Then I will owe you double.”
He is impossible.
“When?”
“Saturday. Lunch.”
I exhale. “Fine. But you are coaching me.”
“Deal.”
He opens my door like a gentleman.
Only for you,” he murmurs with a smile that should be illegal.
And for a moment—too brief, too dangerous—I forget why we are doing all this.
This is business, I remind myself.
Just business.
KHALID
She looked so good in that dress I forgot my own name for a second.
I have been trying not to think about it since, which obviously isn’t working.
“You are staring at that fuel pump like it insulted your mother,” Zane says.
“I’m examining it.”
“You are thinking about Mia.”
“…Maybe.”
He laughs. “You are done for.”
I don’t answer because he might be right.
This was not supposed to be complicated. She was not supposed to get under my skin. But then she rode that damn bike like she owned the road. Then she opened up. Then she smiled at her phone when I texted.
And then Vanessa calls me.
And shows up outside the garage.
Great.
I go out because she is already here, leaning against her BMW like she is posing for a magazine.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“We really don’t.”
She tries everything—apologies, tears, nostalgia.
I don’t fall for any of it.
Not anymore.
When she asks, “Is it because of her?”
I don’t even think.
“Yes. I’m with Mia.”
Her face freezes. But I don’t care.
I walk back into the garage, ignoring Zane’s smirk.
Fake or not… saying it felt too natural.
Too easy.
Too real.
MIA
I walk into my apartment Thursday evening and freeze.
Kyle is sitting on my couch.
In my home.
In my space.
Marcus stands beside him like this is normal.
“What the hell?” I snap.
“Mia, calm down,” Marcus says quickly.
“There is a man in my apartment.”
“He is not a stranger,” Marcus insists. “He is Mom’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t care if he’s the President. How did he get in?”
“I let him in,” Marcus admits. “He had mail from Mom.”
“Get. Out.” I say to Kyle.
He leaves without a fight, but it doesn’t matter—I feel violated. My skin crawls.
“These men always ‘seem nice’ until they are not,” I whisper.
Marcus looks shaken. “Did he—?”
“No. But I know the signs.”
Kyle looked at me the same way a few of Mom’s past boyfriends did—the ones who made me sleep with my door locked.
My phone buzzes.
Khalid.
Picking you up at 7. You good?
No.
But I don’t have time to fall apart.
I grab jeans, a decent top, leather jacket, boots. I brush on makeup with a hand that won’t stop shaking.
A knock. He is early.
The moment I open the door, his expression changes.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Mia.”
“I said nothing. Can we go?”
He doesn’t push. Just nods and leads me out.
At the Italian place, he waits until I take a sip of wine before speaking.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Tell me what is wrong.”
I look down at the table.
And for the first time all day, I feel like I’m allowed to breathe.
- Writer
