Grace’s POV
Cole guides me through Nordstrom's glass doors with his hand wrapped around mine, firm and possessive, like he's afraid I might bolt. Which honestly, I might.
My hand feels small in his, delicate in a way I haven't felt in years, and the simple act of him leading me somewhere makes my stomach flutter with nervous anticipation.
"This is ridiculous," I protest as he steers me past the familiar conservative sections toward designer displays that look like they belong in someone else's life. "I don't need new clothes. My wardrobe is perfectly functional."
"Functional," he repeats the word like it tastes bad.
"Grace, you dress like you're hiding. Like you're apologizing for existing. You need clothes that fit who you're becoming, not who you were when you thought being invisible was the same as being good."
He stops at a rack and pulls out a red dress without hesitation, holding it up against me. The neckline plunges dramatically to the sternum, the fabric clearly meant to cling rather than conceal. "Try this."
"Cole, that's basically lingerie pretending to be a dress. I can't wear something like that in public."
"Exactly."
He winks with that dangerous confidence that makes my knees weak.
"Maybe we'll find something that'll even make that nerd husband of yours remember he has a dick. Though after that night, I'd say he's starting to remember pretty well."
"You're terrible," I say, but I'm laughing, scandalized by his bluntness. "Is this your strategy? Dress me like one of your conquests?"
"My conquests never needed help dressing. Or undressing, for that matter."
He's already piling selections into my arms—silk blouses that would cling to curves I usually hide, jeans that would actually show my ass exists instead of drowning it in fabric, skirts that end mid-thigh instead of safely at my knees.
"Besides, you're not a conquest. You're a revelation waiting to happen."
I follow him to the dressing rooms because resistance feels pointless when Cole gets that determined look in his eyes.
The sales associate, a woman with perfect makeup and knowing eyes, shows us to the largest room at the end.
"Let me know if you need any other sizes," she says with a smile that suggests she knows exactly what we're doing here.
I have to admit, as I strip off my cardigan and sensible dress, that it feels good to imagine myself from a new angle.
The careful, covered-up Grace has been my armor for so long, I've forgotten there might be something else underneath.
The red dress slides over my body like water, like sin, like everything I've been taught not to want. When I emerge from behind the curtain, Cole's breath actually stops.
I can see it—the way his chest freezes mid-inhale, the way his pupils dilate, the way his hands clench and unclench like he's physically restraining himself.
The fabric hugs every curve I usually hide, the neckline revealing the swell of my breasts in a way that makes me want to cross my arms, the hem showing legs that haven't seen daylight in years.
"I can't wear this," I say, but my voice lacks conviction because the way he's looking at me makes me feel powerful in a way I've never experienced.
"You're wearing it right now." He stands, moving toward me with predatory grace until he's backing me against the full-length mirror. "And you're fucking perfect. Look at yourself, Grace."
I meet my own eyes in the mirror, see the woman staring back—flushed, alive, desirable. "This isn't me."
"This is exactly you. The you that's been buried under years of trying to be what everyone else needed."
His hands settle on my waist, thumbs stroking through the thin fabric. "The version that Ryan forgot existed. The version I've been seeing all along."
His hand slides under the hem, traveling up my thigh with devastating slowness, and his eyes widen when he discovers what I already know—I'm already wet, have been since he took my hand in the parking lot.
"Grace," he breathes against my ear. "You're soaking through your panties. Is this what shopping with me does to you?"
"Cole, someone will hear…" I start to protest, but he swallows my words with a kiss that's all hunger and possession.
His fingers slide inside me without preamble, and I have to bite his shoulder to muffle the moan that tries to escape.
"Quiet, baby. Can you be quiet for me?"
His fingers work with practiced skill, thumb circling while he curves inside me just right. "Can you come for me right here, in this dressing room, wearing this dress I picked out, while strangers walk by outside?"
I nod frantically against his shoulder, teeth sinking into his shirt as he increases his pace.
The mirror behind me shows our reflection—me in this scandalous red dress hiked up around my waist, Cole fully dressed with his hand between my legs, both of us trying to be silent while I fall apart.
"That's it," he whispers, voice rough with his own arousal. "Come for me, Grace. Show me how good it feels to let go."
I shatter against his hand, trembling and silent except for my ragged breathing against his neck. He holds me through it, fingers gentling but not withdrawing, like he wants to feel every aftershock.
"Grace? Is that you?"
We freeze completely, Cole's hand still under my dress, my lipstick probably smeared across his collar. Margaret from the book club stands just around the corner—I can see her sensible shoes under the partition.
"Oh! Hi Margaret!"
I somehow manage to sound normal while frantically smoothing my dress down, Cole stepping back with fluid casualness like he wasn't just knuckle-deep inside me.
"We're just... shopping for Ryan's birthday. It's coming up soon."
Margaret peers around the corner with curious eyes that take in my flushed face, the red dress, Cole standing perhaps too close. "How thoughtful! And Cole's helping?"
"He knows Ryan's taste," I manage, the lie coming surprisingly easy. "Better than I do sometimes."
"Men and their friendships," Margaret says with a knowing laugh that suggests she doesn't believe a word. "Well, that dress is certainly something. Very brave of you, dear."
After she finally leaves with promises to see me at next week's book club, Cole holds up a piece of black lace that barely qualifies as lingerie—all strategic straps and see-through panels.
"This is just for me," he says with a certainty that makes my stomach clench with fresh arousal. "You'll wear this when Ryan's not home. Just for me."
I take the hanger with trembling fingers, already imagining how it would feel to wear something chosen specifically for his eyes. "You're going to ruin me."
"Or bring you alive," he counters, gathering up the other selections. "Same thing really. The Grace you've been playing was already dead. I'm just performing CPR."
I want to argue, but I catch sight of myself in the mirror again—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to happiness.
Maybe he's right. Maybe ruin and resurrection are the same thing when you've been sleepwalking through your life.
"We'll take everything," Cole tells the sales associate, handing over his credit card before I can protest.
"Cole, you can't…"
"I can and I am. Consider it an investment in your awakening." He leans close, breath hot against my ear. "Besides, I plan to be the one taking all of these off you. Seems only fair if I buy them."