Safe With You

Dress? More Like Disaster.

~Alyssa~

If hell had a sound, it would be the rustle of tulle and the clatter of heels against marble.

The entire top floor of my house looks like a battlefield — dresses draped over every chair, boxes stacked to the ceiling, ribbons, pins, and bits of fabric littered like confetti from a war I’m rapidly losing.

Elle, bless her efficient heart, had sent over five designer gowns for me to choose from for Savannah’s charity ball tonight.

Five.

Five bloody gowns, each more exquisite — and more ill-fitting — than the last.

And I swear every single one is mocking me.

The first one’s too tight across the bust.

The second makes me look like I’m going to a funeral.

The third—well, I couldn’t even get the zip halfway up before it bit into my skin.

The fourth clings in places no fabric should cling.

And the fifth—don’t even get me started.

Somewhere behind me, laughter erupts.

Two tiny voices, already in their matching silver-blue dresses, are twirling in front of the mirror.

“Mummy, look at us!” Quinn sings.

“We’re sparkly!” Poppy adds, her hair pinned perfectly, curls bouncing like tiny springs.

I force a smile. “You’re both absolutely beautiful, my loves.”

And then I glance back at my reflection.

My hair, which had apparently decided to rebel, refuses to cooperate — strands escaping no matter how many pins I shove in.

My foundation’s melting, my lipstick’s crooked, and the zip on the last gown has officially given up on life.

“WHY—” I growl, yanking at the dress, “—does nothing fit?!”

“Because you’re pulling at it like it owes you money,” comes a calm, amused voice from the doorway.

I spin around to see Greyson leaning against the frame, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose, that infuriatingly calm grin on his face.

“Don’t start,” I warn, half glaring, half ready to burst into tears. “Not tonight.”

He steps forward slowly, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love. But from where I’m standing, the problem isn’t the dresses.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” I snap, tugging at the zip again. “Because I’m fairly certain this one just declared war on me.”

He chuckles, crossing the room and gently catching my hands before I can rip the gown in half.

“Is Alyssa Rose really allowing a few dresses to get the best of her?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Don’t you start with your motivational nonsense, Greyson Riley—”

He smirks. “Nonsense? Darling, you’ve built an empire. You’ve survived boardrooms full of men who couldn’t lace your shoes, you’ve handled design crises at Fashion Week without blinking — and you’re telling me a zip is what’s going to take you down?”

My protest catches in my throat.

Because, damn him, he’s right.

I exhale, shaking my head, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he says softly, brushing a curl away from my cheek. “But you’re unstoppable.”

That does it.

The frustration melts into laughter, quiet at first, then bubbling over until I’m actually laughing at the absurdity of it all.

The girls peek from the corner, giggling when they see me smile.

“You’re right,” I admit, squaring my shoulders. “This is my damn empire. I’ll be damned if some badly made zip is going to get the best of me.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pride in his voice.

I march over to my workbench, still in the half-fastened gown, muttering under my breath about factory standards and incompetent sewing interns.

The dress is gorgeous, yes — midnight silk with an illusion neckline — but the back closure is criminal.

“Honestly,” I grumble, grabbing my shears, “who in their right mind uses this cheap nylon—”

“Careful,” Greyson warns, watching as I slice the zip clean out.

“Relax,” I reply. “I’ve got a plan.”

He just leans back, amused. “That’s what you said before you ‘re-engineered’ my bathroom cabinet.”

“That was an experiment.”

“That exploded.”

“Semantics.”

Within minutes, I’ve threaded a needle and started weaving new life into the gown — replacing the traitorous zip with delicate silver ribbon, threading it into a makeshift corset back.

The sound of the needle through silk is rhythmic, soothing — the one sound that’s always calmed me down.

Greyson stays quiet, watching, occasionally rescuing a spool of thread from rolling underfoot.

When I finish, I stand back, eyeing the result critically.

It’s perfect.

Better than perfect.

The corset back hugs my figure in all the right places, the fabric draping like it was made just for me.

Which, in a way, it now was.

Greyson whistles low. “That’s my woman.”

“Damn right it is,” I say, grinning at him in the mirror.

He steps closer, his reflection appearing behind mine, and gently ties the last ribbon into a bow.

“There,” he says quietly, eyes soft. “Now it’s perfect.”

“Now it’s wearable,” I correct, but my heart’s thudding too hard to be nonchalant.

He dips his head, brushing his lips against the side of my neck.

I shiver.

The warmth of his breath lingers just long enough to make me forget the chaos surrounding us.

“Stop distracting me,” I mumble.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

~Greyson~

Watching her work is… hypnotic.

Alyssa doesn’t just fix things — she transforms them.

She takes what’s broken, what’s failed, what was never meant to be, and somehow makes it exquisite.

And she’s beautiful when she’s in her element — focused, fierce, entirely in control.

The girls have gone quiet now, curled up on the sofa watching a film, whispering about how their parents look like a princess and a prince.

Poppy’s already half asleep on Quinn’s shoulder.

When Alyssa finally steps into the light, the gown gleams — the deep blue silk hugging her curves, the corset ribbons trailing like starlight.

She stares at her reflection for a long moment, then meets my eyes in the mirror.

“Well?” she asks, breathless.

I smile. “You look like you were made for nights like this.”

Her lips curve into something soft, shy even.

And for a moment, the chaos fades. It’s just her and me — no noise, no expectations, no headlines.

“Come on,” she says finally, breaking the spell. “We’ll be late.”

I scoop up my jacket and offer her my arm.

She takes it, regal as ever, though there’s a tiny smudge of thread on her wrist and a stubborn curl at her temple that refused to stay pinned.

And honestly, she’s never looked more perfect.

~Alyssa~

The girls are tucked into the back seat, yawning and whispering to each other as we drive toward Savannah’s estate.

The car hums softly, city lights flickering across Greyson’s profile.

I glance down at my gown, still half-in disbelief that I pulled it together in time.

Greyson’s hand finds mine, warm and steady.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

I nod. “A bit.”

He squeezes lightly. “Good. You’ve got this, love. The whole city could collapse, and you’d still walk in there like you own it.”

“Probably because I’d be the one fixing it,” I tease, smiling now.

He laughs, and the tension that’s been gnawing at me all day finally starts to dissolve.

Later That Evening

Savannah’s charity ball is everything she promised — grand, glittering, breathtaking.

The grand hall glows gold and ivory, chandeliers dripping crystals like icicles.

The air hums with chatter, laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses.

But when we walk in — the four of us together — the room quiets for just a moment.

Then the whispers start.

Alyssa Rose.

And Greyson Riley.

Together.

The same press who’d spent weeks dissecting my statement now stare at us, curiosity burning behind their polite smiles.

And for the first time, I don’t care.

Because Greyson’s hand is in mine, and our daughters — our girls — are spinning in their new dresses in the middle of the ballroom floor, laughing without a care in the world.

Savannah beams when she spots us, sweeping the girls into hugs and fussing over my gown.

“Oh, darling, this! Did you—?”

“Had to make some… alterations,” I admit with a grin.

She laughs. “Of course you did. I should’ve known.”

Lillian waves from across the room, gesturing excitedly toward a group of her friends.

Everything feels light again. Easy.

Like maybe we’ve finally earned this peace.

~Greyson~

Later, while Savannah’s giving her speech, I glance sideways at Alyssa.

The candlelight softens her face, her eyes bright, lips curved into a quiet smile as she watches Quinn and Poppy sway together at the edge of the dance floor.

She catches me staring and raises a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Just… proud.”

“Of what?”

“Of you,” I say simply.

She looks away, but I catch the small, shy smile before she hides it behind her champagne glass.

~Alyssa~

By the time the event winds down, the girls are asleep in their seats, cheeks pink from dancing.

Savannah hugs me tight before we leave. “You did beautifully, darling. And that gown—my word.”

I smile. “Thank you. It nearly didn’t happen.”

“From what I hear,” she says, glancing at Greyson, “you’ve got quite the motivator at home.”

Greyson chuckles softly. “Just keeping her from throwing scissors at a zip, that’s all.”

Savannah laughs, shaking her head. “You two are trouble.”

“Good trouble,” I say, slipping my hand into his.

And for once, everything feels right.

No headlines, no ghosts, no fear.

Just us.

Later — Back Home

The house is quiet.

The girls are tucked in, still in their dresses, too tired to change.

Greyson’s jacket is draped over a chair; my gown is half undone, the corset ribbons hanging loose.

He’s in the doorway, watching as I carefully hang the gown on its stand.

“What?” I ask, smiling.

He tilts his head. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He steps closer, hands sliding around my waist. “About how lucky I am.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my shoulder, “but I’m also right.”

And for a long, quiet moment, we just stand there — his heartbeat steady against my back, the world outside fading to nothing.

The night had started in chaos.

But somehow, like every broken thing I’ve ever touched, we turned it into something beautiful.