Page 53 of Filthy Little Regrets
The doorbell rings, and my breath catches in my throat. Oh my god. She’s here. I hope she’s not a bitch. Shit, what if she is? What if she’s terrible? I’ll never be able to look at her dresses the same, and that would suck because I love them.
Please let her be nice.
When a soft knock sounds on the door, my anxiety spikes for an entirely different reason. I hope I don’t say anything stupid. Breathing in, I smooth my freshly blow-dried hair and check that the robe I borrowed from Mace is covering everything before opening the door.
Vivian fucking Carlisle is everything I anticipated and more. With graying brunette hair that’s elegantly wrapped in a casual chignon and two strands at the front pulled out to frame her angular face, she’s poised. She’s lithe, beautiful, and probably should have been on the runway herself. She’s wearing an understated burgundy sheath dress that manages to look every bit as fabulous as the woman who designed it. Her makeup is perfect. She’s perfect.
Am I drooling? I lift my fingers to the corner of my mouth. Nope, all good.
Vivian’s bright green eyes trace down the lines of my body. “Well, he wasn’t wrong. You are exquisite.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Thank god she’s not an asshole. “Um, hi. I’m Cassia. I love the Peril line.”
She blinks, as if she’s surprised I would know that line, and then beams. “Ah, a true fan, then. Most people only know me for the wedding gowns.”
I shake my head. “They’re missing out. The Mod Number 9 is my favorite,” I confess with a wistful sigh.
“I love that one too,” she says, glancing around me. “May I come in?”
I take two big steps back. “Oh my god, yes, please.”
She comes in, eyeing the room.
“I’m so sorry. I think I’m fangirling? I don’t know if I’ve ever fangirled in my life, but I really love your work. Seriously. I swear, I look at the Peril line daily, dreaming about owning one, but I—” I cut off before I say something insulting.
Her dresses are one of a kind. Beautiful. High quality, made by staff she pays well. Of course they’re expensive.
Turning, she appraises me with a thoughtful look.
I swallow the rock that’s suddenly appeared in my throat.
“Interesting,” is all she says before walking into the closet.
Fuck. Did I say too much? My heart is beating a mile a minute, almost as fast as the night I saw a man die, all because my fashion hero is here in the room with me. I don’t know if I should kiss Mace or kill him for not giving me more warning.
Vivian appears with an ivory number that’s less gown and more punk princess. “Here we are,” she announces, glancing at me to gauge my reaction.
I shuffle closer and touch the edge of it, chewing on my cheek to keep my jaw from dropping. The material is so smooth and silky. Real silk. Nice. Expensive.Beautiful. The corset bodice has intricately laid lace, hand-stitched, and the bottom of the dress is short, probably hitting just below mid-thigh in a bastardized rendition of a traditional tulle gown, but I love it. The sweetheart neckline is going to show so much tit, and the lace, off-the-shoulder sleeves aren’t going to offer much support.
“The corset will keep everything in place,” she assures me, reading my mind. “Well, do you like it?”
I shake my head. She frowns, misunderstanding me, but I quickly say, “I fucking love this dress.”
Her grin is slow and self-satisfied, but I can’t begrudge her that cockiness. She deserves every bit of it. “He sent me some pictures of you.”
Mace has pictures of me?
Vivian continues. “The ivory will look good with yourhair and complexion, and I was hoping you’d like the style I picked. It’s more Peril leaning.”
“I love it, seriously. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank your future husband. He’s paying for it.” Her smile falls as she switches into designer mode. “Take your clothes off.”
Two seconds later, the robe is on the floor and I’m nearly naked in front of her. It might be the fastest I’ve ever disrobed, but she’s a professional. One doesn’t just tell Vivian Carlisle no. She helps me into the dress, humming in approval as it glides over my thick thighs. “Perfect. He did good with the measurements,” she murmurs to herself.
I hold the corset to my chest as she guides me to the threshold of the closet. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Not much. I’ll make sure you can breathe, but it’ll have to be tight enough to contain those boobs, which are fabulous, by the way. I wish I had more.”
