Dress & Him to Her, I Move On

Chapter 2

I'd spent the whole night wide awake in the guest room.

By morning, I was on the floor of the home office, sealing up cardboard boxes full of my old life—performance DVDs, tour footage, worn-in leotards, pointe shoes with frayed ribbons.

Edmund stepped out of the master bedroom and headed straight for the dining room.

No freshly brewed dark roast waiting for him. No smell of toasted sourdough.

Normally, by this hour, I'd have his breakfast laid out and his shirt and tie pressed and ready for the day.

He glanced at the wall clock, frowning, and leaned against the office doorway.

"We can push everything else aside. Let's go to the clinic for your follicle monitoring first."

I didn't answer. I just ripped off another strip of packing tape and smoothed it down over the box flap.

He stared at the boxes, his expression heavy with exasperation. He thought I was still throwing a fit over the dress.

He walked back to the bedroom. A few minutes later, he emerged carrying a giant orange Hermès box and dropped it at my feet.

A limited-edition Birkin.

"Think of the dress as a company PR expense," he said, looking down at me like he was handing out a reward for good behavior.

"Celeste closed the Riverside deal. It was a net win, by a mile. This bag is your apology present. Enough with the drama. I booked the doctor. My assistant will drive you over later."

In his eyes, my pride, my dignity, my boundaries—all of it had a price tag.

A year ago, I would've hurled the box right back at him, screaming and crying and demanding to know why he was doing this to me.

Now? I didn't even have the energy to ask for an explanation.

My body had already paid for his vanity. One expensive bag was barely even a drop in the bucket.

The front door beeped. Celeste let herself in.

Edmund didn't even flinch. "I gave her a temporary code. Just for the next few days, so we can coordinate the Riverside launch faster."

Celeste was wearing a figure-hugging French tea dress, cinched so tight at the waist it looked painful.

She carried Edmund's suit jacket draped over one arm, and a large garment bag slung over the other.

"Edmund, you left your jacket in my car last night. I brought the dress too. It's in the bag," she said, gliding into the room.

Her eyes flicked over the boxes on the floor, then landed on my baggy cotton lounge wear. A tiny, smug smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Tessa," she said, putting on a concerned tone. "Edmund told me you'd been moody from the hormone shots. Please don't be upset with him about last night. He's been working so hard for the company."

I remained on the floor and said nothing.

When I didn't bite, she sighed and kept going, her voice soft and pitying.

"It must be so hard, going through fertility treatments. You've lost all your glow, honestly.

"Don't push yourself so hard. Even if you can't have kids... Edmund's such a sentimental guy. He'd always take care of you, no matter what."

Edmund stood beside her and said nothing. He let her words hang in the air, like they were the plain, obvious truth.

In their world, a woman who'd lost her stage, lost her figure, lost her purpose—her only option was to live off his charity. I was just a sad, kept pet.

I looked up at Celeste's perfect, polished face.

Last night, when I'd snapped all those vials in the bathroom, I'd thrown the old version of myself in the trash right along with them—the girl who'd shrunk herself to fit their little game.

I stood up, brushed dust off my sweatpants, and calmly picked up the orange Birkin box, tucking it onto a shelf in the cabinet.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Edmund's face. He thought I'd accepted the bribe. He thought the tantrum was over, and everything could go back to normal. He was already turning to head for the shower.

I closed the cabinet door and looked straight at Celeste.

"I'm not upset with him."

My gaze drifted to the garment bag holding the wedding dress.

"You should take the dress back to the dry cleaner's."

Celeste blinked. Her smile froze. "Tessa... what's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." I held her gaze, cold and steady. "You squeezed yourself into a dress two sizes too small and wore it for 6 hours straight. You must've been sweating through the lining. I don't want that smell in my house."

All the color drained from her face.

For all that the photos made it look like the dress was made for her, it was still cut to my old measurements—couture, precise, zero room to breathe.

Even she must have been suffocating in it, her back slick with sweat the whole night.

I'd called her bluff. That perfect, poised facade of hers cracked wide open.

"You—" She bit her lip, eyes immediately glistening.

She turned to Edmund, voice trembling. "Edmund, I was just being nice bringing the dress back. Why is she being so mean to me?"