"It's fine, Cross. They didn't notice," she said softly, trying to mask the weight of the fabric digging into her ribs. She pulled the smile back on like a mask she was tired of wearing. "Besides, I can manage the dress."

He didn’t spare her a single glance. His eyes, cold and unreadable, flicked toward the stylist instead. “She should change the dress,” he said, voice flat, clipped—devoid of affection, yet ringing with authority.

Before she could even blink, he was already moving. He walked over to the dress rack like a man on a mission, his movements sharp and calculated. Fingers trailing lightly over satin and lace, he halted...