Kate picked me up a little after noon, Taylor Swift’s 1989 already blasting from the car speakers. Not the sad songs either—Style, New Romantics, Blank Space. Confidence anthems. She had the windows down, her hair up, and a ridiculous grin on her face like we were going to prom instead of the mall.
“You ready?” she asked, turning the volume down just enough to hear herself.
“I’m terrified.”
“Good. That means it’ll be worth it.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled a little anyway.
The mall was buzzing but not packed. We skipped the food court, went straight for this boutique I’d only ever walked past before—one of those places where the lighting was golden and the mannequins had thigh gaps and cheekbones.
I hesitated at the entrance.
Kate didn’t. She just grabbed my wrist. “Don’t overthink it. I know what I’m doing.”
Within five minutes, she was flipping through racks like a stylist on a mission.
“Do you like emerald green?” she asked.
“I’ve… never worn it?”
“Then it’s time.” She shoved a dress into my arms. “Trust me, it’ll look incredible with your skin tone.”
She started building a pile—wrap dresses, soft sweaters, satin skirts, one pair of ridiculously flattering jeans, and even a crop top. I gave her a look at that.
“You think I’m ready for this?” I asked, holding it up like it was lingerie.
Kate smirked. “Not yet. But maybe. You’d be surprised what actually flatters you.”
When we got to the fitting room, I was sweating.
The first outfit was a wrap dress in dark green. I pulled it on and immediately wanted to take it off—it hugged me. It showed things. My stomach, my hips, the way my arms squished slightly under the sleeves.
But when I stepped out, Kate froze.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
I crossed my arms. “Is that bad?”
“That’s incredible.”
I shifted awkwardly. “It’s tight.”
“Yeah. In a good way.”
“I look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You look like you finally realized you have a body worth showing off.”
I stared at her.
She didn’t flinch.
We went through five more outfits. A dusty pink skirt that hit mid-thigh. A soft knit top that actually made me look curvy instead of wide. A red dress I swore I wouldn’t wear, until I saw my reflection.
And then—just as I stepped back out in that red dress—someone called out behind us.
“Kate?”
We both turned.
It was Stacey.
She was standing near the accessory wall, holding a phone in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. Her hair was up in a messy-but-perfect bun. She wasn’t smirking yet—just surprised.
“Didn’t know you were shopping today,” she said, walking over. “Didn’t get the memo.”
Kate’s voice stayed easy. “Spur of the moment.”
Then Stacey noticed me.
Her eyes did a full body scan in less than a second. They paused at my waist, then flicked to my chest, then settled on my face.
And then the smirk appeared.
“Well, this is a… look,” she said, her tone fake-cheerful.
Kate straightened. “We’re finding something for the gala.”
“Oh,” Stacey said, blinking. “So… Now you’re her stylist?”
Kate didn’t blink. “She doesn’t need one. Just a little support.”
“Right.” Stacey sipped her drink. “So this is what—some kind of pity thing?”
Kate’s tone sharpened. “She’s not a project.”
Stacey looked at me. “Do you really think a dress changes anything?”
I felt my heart pounding. My cheeks were burning. I could feel the dress clinging to every soft curve of my body.
But I didn’t back down.
“Marcus chose me,” I said, forcing the words out.
Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw twitched.
Kate raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. He did.”
Stacey’s gaze bounced between us.
Then she smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure. Let’s prove it then. Right here and now.”