The tailor's studio smelled like starch, perfume, and money.
Lena noticed it the moment she stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Bolts of fabric lined the walls. Silk, velvet, lace, each one more expensive than the last. The kind of place where secrets were measured in inches and stitched shut with quiet discretion.
"You're early."
The voice came from behind a curtain.
She turned.
Marcus Vale emerged slowly, tape measure draped around his neck, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked nothing like the man she'd expected, less polished, more dangerous. His eyes lingered on her reflection in the mirror before meeting her gaze directly.
"Couldn't sleep," Lena said. "Thought I'd come before I changed my mind."
"That happens a lot here," he replied. "People changing their minds."
She smiled faintly. "Then don't let me."
The door locked with a soft click behind her. She hadn't heard him move, but suddenly he was closer, presence heavy and deliberate. This fitting wasn't supposed to feel intimate. It was supposed to be about a dress.
Yet the way his eyes traced the lines of her body made it feel like something else entirely.
"Wedding gown," he said, finally. Not a question.
"Yes."
"And the groom?"
"Doesn't deserve honesty," she replied.
That made him pause.
Marcus lifted the fabric. She'd chosen ivory silk, deceptively simple. "Step onto the platform."
She did. The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognized: composed, confident, hiding something sharp beneath the surface.
His fingers brushed her waist as he adjusted the first pin. The contact was professional, too professional, but it sent a ripple through her anyway. Lena inhaled sharply, cursing herself for reacting.
"You're tense," he said quietly.
"Occupational hazard."
"Marriage?" he guessed.
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Lies."
That earned a slow smile.
He circled her, measuring, adjusting, his touch precise but lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The silence between them grew thick, charged with things neither of them said.
"You come here often?" he asked.
"First time."
"Good," he murmured. "First times are honest."
His knuckles grazed the small of her back, and this time she didn't pretend it was an accident.
"You shouldn't say things like that to a client," she said.
"You shouldn't look at me like you're asking for trouble," he replied.
Her pulse betrayed her.
"Finish the fitting," she said softly.
Marcus hesitated. Then he reached for the zipper at the back of the sample dress, fingers steady. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered it just enough to expose skin. Lena's breath caught, not from fear, but anticipation.
"You're not wearing the right underlayers," he said.
"I know."
The admission hung there.
His hand rested at her waist, firm now. "Then this dress isn't the only thing you're lying about."
She turned, stepping down from the platform until they were face to face. Close enough to feel his breath. Close enough to smell him, clean, masculine, restrained.
"You're crossing a line," she said.
"You crossed it the moment you chose me," he replied. "You could've gone anywhere."
"I wanted someone who wouldn't ask questions."
"I never said I wouldn't," he said. "I just choose which ones matter."
He kissed her then, not rushed, not greedy. Controlled. Like he'd been waiting longer than she realized. Lena melted into it, hands gripping his shirt, the silk dress pooling at her feet like a discarded promise.
When they finally pulled apart, she whispered, "This doesn't change anything."
"It already has," Marcus said.
They didn't go far, just the worktable, fabric and chalk forgotten. The intimacy was slow, deliberate, layered with tension and restraint. Every touch felt earned. Every breath shared carried weight.
Afterward, Lena sat on the edge of the platform, dress clutched to her chest, hair undone. Marcus handed her a glass of water without a word.
"You shouldn't marry him," he said finally.
She laughed softly. "You don't know him."
"I know you," he replied. "Enough."
She stood, gathering herself. "You know what I let you see."
His gaze sharpened. "Then tell me this, does he know who you were before him?"
Her smile faded.
"No."
Marcus nodded once. "Then he's marrying a stranger."
At the door, Lena paused, hand on the handle.
"You're not just a tailor," she said.
"No," he agreed. "And you're not just a bride."
She left without another word.
Two weeks later, Marcus received an envelope. No return address. Inside was a single invitation, wedding cancelled, engagement dissolved.
And beneath it, a note written in a familiar hand:
Keep the dress. I won't be needing lies stitched that tight anymore.
Marcus folded the paper carefully, already knowing one thing with certainty.
Some fittings were never about clothes.