Chapter 9 - The Fitting on Oak Street
Two weeks before the wedding, the private bridal salon of Madame Genevieve on Oak Street was closed to the public under the watchful, armed supervision of six Caster security operators stationed outside the glass entrance.
Inside, the salon was a sea of antique mirrors, white velvet settees, and racks of hand-stitched French silk and Chantilly lace.
Khloe stood on the elevated circular pedestal in the center of the room, wearing the finished masterpiece that Madame Genevieve had spent two hundred hours creating.
It was not a traditional ballgown.
It was an architectural vision of heavy ivory silk crepe that hugged her frame with breathtaking, royal elegance. The neckline was a dramatic, off-the-shoulder boatneck that framed her collarbones and bare shoulders, while long, fitted lace sleeves cascaded down to her wrists, perfectly framing the six-carat diamond ring on her finger. The skirt fell in clean, sculptural lines to the floor, extending into a six-foot cathedral train of delicate Brussels lace that pool around her red-soled satin shoes.
Her dark hair was swept up in an intricate, majestic chignon beneath a cathedral-length veil of matching lace that fell from an antique platinum tiara set with raw black sapphires—the historic wedding crown of the Caster matriarchs.
Madame Genevieve stepped back, her hands clasped to her chest, tears welling in her eyes. "Magnifique. You are not a bride, chérie. You are an empress."
The heavy curtains at the back of the salon parted.
Roman walked in.
He had ignored the traditional superstition about not seeing the bride before the ceremony. When Roman Caster wanted to see his woman, no French dressmaker on earth was going to stop him.
He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his tie unbuttoned, his hands resting in his pockets.
He stopped ten feet from the pedestal.
The air left his lungs in a single, ragged gasp.
He stared at Khloe. Really stared at her.
He took in the flawless ivory silk, the veil cascading over her dark curls, the radiant, sovereign beauty of her face, and the unshakeable, luminous love shining in her amber eyes.
For the second time in his life, the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard stood completely paralyzed, his heart slamming against his ribs with a violence that made his hands tremble.
Khloe smiled—a slow, teasing, and breathtaking curve of her lips as she stepped down from the pedestal and walked toward him, her cathedral train gliding over the white carpet.
"Well, Mr. Caster?" she whispered, stopping three inches from his chest. "Does this meet your corporate itinerary?"
Roman reached out, his large, trembling hands gently framing her face through the sheer lace of her veil, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones with an infinite, heartbreaking reverence.
"You are the most breathtaking thing God ever created, Khloe," Roman choked out, his voice cracked with raw, unvarnished emotion.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers through the lace, his eyes closing as he pulled her into his arms.
May you like
"Fourteen days, Khloe," he whispered against her skin.
"Fourteen days until the whole world knows you're my wife."
