Page 52 of Arranged To Be Mine

I pulled up the photo I’d taken of it at the time. A floor-length gown with silver beading that cascaded down the fabric like frost on a window. The blue was pale, almost icy.

Ice.

I stared at the image, my stomach sinking.

The dress was beautiful. I wanted ice because it was a play on diamonds. But looking at it now, all I could see was the ice queen narrative that had been haunting me for weeks. Silver and blue. Cold colors. It practically begged people to make frozen heart jokes.

I told myself it wasn’t about what Beau might think. It was about optics. I needed to make sure nothing about my appearance reinforced the image I was trying to escape. The masquerade ball would be photographed extensively. Social media would be crawling with pictures. If I showed up looking like Elsa’s corporate cousin, I’d be handing the trolls ammunition on a silver platter.

I closed the laptop and leaned back against the couch cushions. I needed a new dress. The problem was, I was terrible at this. Fashion had never been my strong suit. I’d spent most of my life in business attire, letting stylists handle the rare occasions that required something more. I didn’t have an eye for it. I didn’t know what worked.

And to make matters worse, I didn’t have a lot of friends to call for help with something like this.

That realization stung more than I wanted to admit. I had colleagues. Business associates. But actual friends? The kind you could call up on a Sunday morning to go dress shopping?

Nope.

Cleo had given me her number after our shopping trip. She told me to reach out anytime. She knew fashion. It was literally her job. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and pulled up her contact to send her a text.

Hey Cleo, this is Darcy. I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. I have a dress question and could use a professional opinion if you have a minute.

She was probably busy. She had her own business to run and her own life to live. Why would she want to spend her day helping a stranger pick out a dress?

My phone buzzed.

Of course it’s okay. What’s up?

I pulled up the photo of my original dress and typed out a message.

Me: I have this dress for an event coming up, but I’m worried it might scream ice queen. Too much silver and blue. What do you think?

I attached the photo and hit send.

The three dots appeared. I waited for her opinion. It mattered.

Cleo: Yeah, I can see that. It’s gorgeous, but the color palette is definitely on the cooler side. If you’re trying to warm up your image, this might not be the best choice.

I sighed. I’d known that but having it confirmed still felt like a blow.

Another message popped up.

If you want to find a new dress, I’m free today. I could show you some stores that should have what you need. Sometimes seeing things in person makes all the difference.

I stared at the message, surprised by the offer. She was willing to spend her day off helping me shop?

Are you sure? I typed. I don’t want to impose on your weekend.

Cleo: Please. Shopping is literally my favorite thing. You’d be doing me a favor. I’ve been looking for an excuse to check out some new boutiques anyway.

I smiled. Okay, if you’re sure. Where should I meet you?

She sent me an address in Beverly Hills along with a time. Two hours later, I was standing outside a boutique I’d never heard of, waiting for Cleo to arrive.

Cleo appeared around the corner, looking effortlessly put together in a way I’d never quite mastered.

“Darcy!” She pulled me into a quick hug before I could react. I managed not to go completely rigid this time. Progress. “I’m so glad you reached out. This is going to be fun.”

“Thank you for doing this,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”