Chapter 3 - The Fitting on Oak Street
On the fourteenth of October, five days before the gala, the rain cleared from the Gold Coast, leaving Oak Street bathed in the sharp, crystalline light of autumn.
At 2:00 PM, the private salon of Maison de Laurent—the most exclusive haute couture atelier in the Midwest—was closed to the public under the watchful, armed supervision of six Valente security operators stationed outside the frosted glass windows.
Inside, the salon was a sea of antique mirrors, ivory silk carpeting, and racks of hand-stitched French velvet and Chantilly lace.
Josie stood on the elevated circular pedestal in the center of the room, wearing the finished masterpiece that Madame Laurent had spent four hundred hours creating.
It was not a dress designed to hide her.
It was an architectural vision of heavy, liquid-emerald silk velvet that hugged her magnificent, lush curves with breathtaking, royal sovereignty. The neckline was a dramatic, off-the-shoulder boatneck that framed her collarbones and the soft, creamy expanse of her shoulders; the waist was sculpted with internal corsetry that accentuated the lush, hourglass arch of her hips; and the skirt cascaded in heavy, shimmering folds to the floor, pooling into a four-foot train of dark emerald silk that caught the chandelier light like deep ocean water.
Around her neck, catching the light like captured stars, sat an antique platinum necklace set with seventy carats of raw, flawless Colombian emeralds—an heirloom Adrian had commissioned from a private vault in Geneva thirty days earlier.
Madame Laurent stepped back, her hands clasped to her chest, her French eyes wide with awe. "Mon Dieu, Madame Valente. You do not look like a guest. You look like an empress arriving to inspect her provinces."
Josie looked at her reflection in the towering triple mirror.
For twenty years, she had spent her life trying to dress down. She had bought boxy, oversized blazers from department stores; she had chosen dark, matte colors that didn't draw the eye; she had walked through ballrooms with her chin down, terrified that someone would point a finger at her body and whisper that she was taking up too much space.
Now, standing in sixty yards of liquid emerald velvet, her curves celebrated, her presence unassailable, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
The heavy velvet curtains at the rear of the salon parted softly.
Adrian walked in.
He did not wear his coat. He wore an unbuttoned charcoal wool suit, a white dress shirt open at the throat, his hands resting in his trouser pockets, his dark hair brushed back with razor precision.
He stopped ten paces from the pedestal.
The air left his lungs in a single, ragged gasp.
He stared at his wife. He stared at the way the emerald velvet clung to the soft, breathtaking swell of her hips, the creamy perfection of her shoulders, and the hesitant, vulnerable warmth in her dark eyes.
For the first time in their two years of marriage, the most feared man in Chicago looked completely, utterly paralyzed.
"Adrian?" Josie whispered, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink as she looked down at the silk train. "Is it... is it too much? I told Madame Laurent that perhaps a simple black wrap—"
Adrian didn't let her finish.
He crossed the ivory carpet in four long, unhurried strides. He stepped onto the pedestal, his large, calloused hands coming up to gently, reverently frame the sides of her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones with an infinite, heartbreaking tenderness.
"You are the most breathtaking thing God ever created, Josephine," Adrian whispered, his deep baritone trembling with raw, unvarnished emotion.
Josie’s breath hitched. She looked into his lead-gray eyes, seeing the unshakeable, terrifying devotion burning within them, and felt her heart swell until it ached.
"You're being dramatic, Adrian," she laughed softly, though her eyes were shining with sudden, happy tears. "It's just an evening gown."
"It is not just a gown, Josie," Adrian murmured, his hands sliding down to rest possessively over the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against his broad chest.
May you like
He leaned down, pressing his lips softly to the sensitive skin below her ear, his voice dropping into a low, sacred promise that made her spine shiver:
"On Saturday night, Josie... the entire city is going to look at you. And they are going to learn what an empress looks like."
