Isabelle’s POV
The mall smelled like fresh coffee and new leather, echoing with soft pop music and the tap of heels against marble floors. I stood in front of the main clothing rack, pulling dresses one after another. Isaac hovered nearby—arms folded, one eyebrow perpetually raised.
“Remember,” I said, holding up a blush-pink satin midi dress, “this is for rooftop cocktails—more old-money Edison bulbs than spring wedding.”
He nodded, uncharacteristically patient. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I grabbed a silky emerald sheath next, then a shimmery navy number with cutout shoulders. Into the fitting room they went, one by one. Isaac gave me thumbs-up or indifference when I stepped out.
Finally, I emerged in a merlot-colored wrap dress with a thigh slit. “Isaac, what do you think?”
He lo
