Chapter 3 - The Fitting and the RingThe atelier of Madame Dupond on Newbury Street was closed to the general public for a private afternoon fitting. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers as Miranda stood on a raised platform, watching in the 3-way mirror as the master seamstress pinned the hem of a floor-length gown made of midnight-blue silk velvet.
The dress was a masterpiece—understated, elegant, and completely devoid of the flashy, sequined trends that Candace Hayes favored.
“Magnificent,” Madame Dupond murmured, stepping back to admire her work. “It drapes like liquid midnight, Mrs. Calloway. Your husband has exquisite taste.”
Miranda smiled faintly. Adrien had insisted on commissioning the gown after she admitted she had nothing in her closet appropriate for an event where she would be standing alongside international dignitaries.
The door to the private salon chimed softly.
Adrien walked in carrying two coffees from her favorite local bakery. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her in the mirror.
For a long moment, the tailor, the music, and the rush of the city outside seemed to fade away.
“Well?” Miranda asked, turning slightly to look at him. “Does it pass inspection?”
Adrien crossed the room, his eyes dark with an intensity that made her breath catch. He didn't look at the silk or the cut; he looked straight into her eyes through the reflection.
“Inspection is an understatement,” he said softly, stepping onto the platform and resting his hands lightly on her waist. “You look like a queen walking into her own coronation.”
“Don't exaggerate.”
“I never exaggerate when it comes to you.” He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to her bare shoulder. “How are you holding up? I know Saturday is going to be a whirlwind.”
“I’m fine,” Miranda said, though she let out a quiet sigh. “Part of me still feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. For eight years with Julian, every time something good happened, I spent the next week bracing for the fallout.”
Adrien’s expression tightened. He turned her around so she was facing him directly.
“Listen to me, Miranda,” he said, his voice firm and absolute. “You are not walking into that ballroom as a survivor. You are walking in as the woman who built the Harbor Light Foundation from the ground up, who spent hundreds of hours in free clinics when your ex-husband was busy buying penthouses, and who happens to be my wife.”
He lifted her left hand. Over the simple platinum wedding band sat the antique sapphire ring that had belonged to Adrien’s grandmother—a piece of jewelry carrying historical weight that made Julian’s flashy diamond engagement rings look like costume pieces.
“Julian built his entire identity on what he owned,” Adrien continued quietly. “He thinks people are disposable because he’s never had to care about anyone outside his reflection. On Saturday night, he’s going to learn that ownership doesn't equal power.”
May you like
Miranda looked down at their joined hands. The fear that had lingered in her chest since the puddle incident finally dissolved, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “Let’s give him a night he’ll never forget.”
