When I told Randy a month ago that my name was going to be on the magazines, I did not mean The Scarlet Post.

In the fucking gossip column, too, no doubt. I liked Appelle-la Rouge as much as the next gal, but only as a reader. I would never be the same if my name was plastered on it, snubbing my business into the hands of America. Here, people were ruthless and callous and free-spirited.

They didn't care about the people behind their favorite films, books, or music so long it only brought them entertainment and fulfilling their own selfish happiness.

You could be the richest person in the country and still feel like a piece of shit.

Now it was May. The weather calmed, warming up the nation. Thank God, I hated the cold.

The car pulled in front of Dior, and Darren opened the door for me. I stepped out, sliding my pink-rimmed sunglasses and grabbed hold of his burly hand, pulling myself up.

I dusted off, my hands smoothing out my dress. My heels clicked on the pavement as I walked towards the front door.

Darren shut my door and caught up behind me, a handful of comfortable paces away. He was too far away, but I didn't tell him that. He hated when I corrected him, but alas, someone needed to be humbled once in a while.

"We're here to pick out your dress," he said, his breath warm against my ear. He slid over to the right to hold the door for me. "Don't faff."

I cut my eyes away, taking a heavy exhale. I didn't know what was more clawing and grating–his mouth against my ear or him telling me what to do.

As if I didn't know why we were here to begin with. It was the very first day of the press tour for Little Women. While Emaad's role as Richard Mirabel was short-lived and only a smidgen guest appearance, this role–him as Laurie–was massive.

After six years, it was all leading up to this. All his late nights, all his travels, his workaholic behavior–it lead to his big break. He could finally rest.

... And I didn't anticipate myself being in his place.

The column in the paper was scathing as it was equal parts embarrassing. Darren was not my boyfriend. He wasn't even my friend.

"I won't," I replied tautly, slipping my sunnies back into my matching red handbag. "This is strictly business." I looked at him, he looked at me. I wasn't sure exactly what I was referring to for a moment. My red lips parted.

"Ah, Miss Huseinni."

I whipped my head around and faced the front. My heart leaped in my chest. He was overly tall like Darren, but much older with a tuft of silver hair, a matching mustache, and a physique that screamed he did he wasn't like the rest of the sixty-something-year-olds his age. My face was flushed. I pulled a smile. It was the store manager, Anthony Mark, a well-renowned r=designer in his own right. I had always seen his work in the Scarlet Post and Appelle-la Rouge but never actually met in person.

Until now. Until today. Emaad was doing something right, milking out my interests just to keep me happy, and put in a good word for him about his film.

That crafty, sneaky son of a bitch.

"Hi!" I said cheerily, pulling my body up to kiss him on both his cheeks. "Hope I'm not too early, I am just so very excited."

He smiled at me, the corners of his overly-filled lips pulling upwards, the wrinkles around his eyes stretching out, becoming more defined. "Not at all," he said, his hand slithering to my back to guide me to browse the shop.

Darren's footsteps trailed behind,. I felt myself ease, looking around gingerly. It was beautifully decorated, with golden clothes racks in every corner, big, dainty, chandeliers hung above from the artful ceiling decal. The walls were painted a bright white, starring with crown molding to give it an edge.

"Mister Huseinni informed me that you are here for a dress, yes?" Anthony asked.

I nodded. "Yes, it's for the premiere–the press tour."

He let out a hearty, warm laugh. "I can see why you are excited, Aya. this is huge for th kids your age–Mister Huseinni and you, more specifically."

"I'm truly honored to attend," I said plainly.  "Now... do you have something pink?"

Anthony's attention fell to Darren. He glanced at me. "Who's the fellow?"

"Security," I told him earnestly, keeping my voice low so none of the other customers heard. "Personal."

"Ah, I see." he shifted in his stance, extending his arms out, walking towards a clothing rack. "Pink, you said? This is apart of a new collection, I think you ought to try it."

I wasn't paying attention. My eyes were fixed on him.

"Very well," I said, "I'll try it on." I glanced a t the dress. Anthony draped it smartly over his long body to show me finer details.

It was floor length (I was going to have to wear heels with it), a light, pink champagne color, closed back with an open front, short sleeves that stopped right under the arm, and straight neckline with a slight, sharp cut right down the center of the bust.

The material was silk. There was a bold, thin slit on the side that stopped into an upside down "v" shape right under the hip.

This choice was definitely a statement.

... for trouble.

I didn't realize the shit-show I was accidentally on the cusp of performing.

I said yes to trying it on! It was pretty, I'll you that. So very, very pretty–but I could only think of one thing: I wanted to try on the dress just as badly as I wanted it to be ripped off of me.

I desperately deserved a life that was mine.

I wanted to make stupid decisions because they were mine to make. Mine to break. Mine to learn from.

All mine.

At least then I'd have a choice. I'd know that I did something of my own merit. Because I hated the color red, but I wore it to please others. I hated the color black, but I wore it to be intimidating. Off-putting. Frightening.

Because if I couldn't be nothing but a princess in the public, I had to show the rest of the world I wasn't going to be nice.

But this dress, this one was different.

It was fit for a royal.

It was fit for a queen.

"Where are the dressing rooms, Anthony?"

He guided me to the back of the ground floor. I was met with an open area, bright lights, velvet sofas along the walls, and booths on the right side. Darren's body was the last thing I saw before I closed the door. "Sit," I said casually, hanging the dress on the rack. I stripped down until I was in nothing but my undergarments. "You've been standing all day."

He gruffed. "It's alright," he said.

"If you say so..." I looked in the mirror, and I couldn't recognize the woman I saw before me. She was different. She was stiff, cold. My head was held up high. I draped in the dress against my bare skin, touching the creamy fabric cautiously.

It was perfect. This was sure going to have heads turn at the premiere. This dress said everything I needed it to.  It was my voice.

It was my armor.

"I know this is random," I said started, stepping into the dress, "but... why'd you join the army? Why'd you become a bodyguard?"

He did respond, but not right away. "That's an inappropriate question to ask, Miss Huseinni," his tone was gentle but firm.

I scoffed, not believing him. One moment he thought he was the fucking king of the world–maybe even the next Prince Charles–teasing, taunting, protecting me when I didn't need protecting (aside from... recent events). And now? He wanted to act like nothing happened? Like nothing was happening?

I tensed. Fine, if he was going to be professional, so was I. "My most sincere apologies, Dr. Alexander." I hopped. And hopped. And hopped until I slipped, pulling too hard I lost my balance and fell on my back. "Oof."

"It's Mister," he corrected me, his tone turning more dark and serious. He knocked on my door. "Is everything alright? I heard you falling."

Even in such a state of... whatever he was doing, he never failed to be a gentleman and annoying at the same time.

"Wow, thanks for telling me something I already knew," I replied, heaving myself up, tits out on total display. Fuck. I couldn't get into the dress. "I'm fine," I assured, copying his bitter tone. Or, at least I thought it was.

It looked like it'd fit–it did–until I realized I couldn't get it passed my ass.

When I'd asked Anthony where the dressing rooms were, I at least thought he'd show me the sizing options. But this was Anthony Mark, a fashion designer, the only sizing he knew was ten or twelve, fourteen was pushing it. That was until I saw the zipper when I turned around, back to the mirror.

My god, this could not have been more embarrassing.

I was wearing it wrong the whole time.

"Uh..." My mouth fell open.

"Yes?"

I whimpered, biting my lip. Maybe if I unzipped it a little it could finally fit. Straightening myself up, with one hand held tightly against the front of the dress so the fabric didn't spill out (if I wanted to flash him, it wouldn't be in a fucking Dior fitting room).

And I didn't. I was not about to go to jail for public indecency. I was already scarred from all the of the two stories my friend Millicent had told me about going to jail twice because of it.

She was stupid as she was smart–her street skills were pitiful, but God, she was a hoot.

She was lucky Dina and I bailed her out at the same day she'd gotten in.

So I did, unzipping slightly and I was able to get it passed my butt. All was well for a total of two seconds when I tried to lightly tug on it, and it got caught; completely stuck, jammed on the small of my back.

I gasped in horror, ,y hands flung to mouth, eyes wide. "Shit," I hissed, scared shitless.

"Aya."

I jumped. I forgot he was evening standing there. I whipped my head to the door, mouth open wide, lips quivering. "Yes?" I asked, my voice shrilled.

"May I come in?"

No, I wanted to say, no you may not. 

"Yes–but you cannot... look anywhere else. I..." a blush spread across my cheeks, my face warmed. "I can't get it past the small of my back."

He sighed audibly. I could feel his smoldering gaze pierce through my basically-clad body. I shivered. "I won't look," he assured, tentatively opening the dressing room door.

I turned around, back facing him as I clutched the front of the dress with both my hands. As soon as he entered the room, the space between us was as narrow as the hallway where our rooms were back at the apartment.

His breath was hot and heavy; gaze scathing. This was utterly embarrassing.

He inched as close as you could get without forgetting to leave room to breathe. His obscenely large hands were knowingly placed on my back.

I closed my eyes.

I felt his touch–his skin on my skin, however accidental, careful, gentle–and he tugged at the zipper enclosure, once, twice.

"It won't move."

I fluttered my eyes open, exhaling deeply. "What?" I asked. "You're the doctor, here, put more force into it." I restrained the urge to look over my shoulder, or to look at him in the full-length mirror.

"If I put 'more force', I'll break the zipper."

"Jesus, how hard are you pulling?"

"The piece is delicate," he said monotonously. "It's silk, remember?"

No, I didn't remember. Hell, I didn't remember much, if anything, of what Anthony was telling me about the dress. I was too in my head, in a goddamn reverie.

I wasn't going to admit that, though.

"Right," I said sheepishly.

He tried again, and it worked–thank God–but not well enough and it got stuck again.

This time, it sent both of us lunging forward.

Darren caught me, his arm alone engulfed my body, and the other pushed on the tiny, front bench keeping him and I upright.

If the bench wasn't there, the accidental pull would have sent him toppling over me.

It seemed like nothing in my life was going like I wanted or expected it to. I wanted to get a dress for my brother's movie premiere, something so small and special, and then this happened.

Anthony Mark happened. He instilled unfathomable ideas into my head. This was a pain. This was torture. Was he trying to punish me for no reason?

"Sorry," Darren hastily said, breaking the silence that I wasn't even aware was there between us.

Lo and behold, he was able. I hurried to slip the rest of the dress on, putting my head and arms through.

The reflection flashed me with an image of a girl trying to imitate a woman.

It hugged my curves in every place it needed, making me look like a goddess drenched in silks.

"What are we going to do?" I asked mildly, my voice barely giving. My heart palpitated, hands shaking.

Darren closed the door. I heard him sit on the sofa. "Nothing," he told me. "There's nothing we're going to do."

I frowned. "Why?"

I heated up, twisted around and sat in the narrow, tiny bench, head in my hands. I was meant to be queen, to feel better—to feel powerful—but I felt powerless.

"Rule of thumb, princess: do as I say, when I say it. I'm going to ask the manager for a replacement. Don't move."

Lucky for him, I was in complete shock to move. I stayed there until he came back.

I flung the door open. He looked down on me, as if taking me in with his eyes. "Here," he said, handing me one with a working zipper this time.

"I don't know if I like it," I mumbled.

"If it helps," he said softly, reassuringly, "it looks nice. Everyone will love it."

I huffed, taking the replacement and closed the door to put it on. "You think so?"

"I know so."

"How assuring," I fibbed. "You're supposed to be a doctor. What if we go tailor the dress?" I stalled.

"For the love of God, I'm not a psychologist, and we have no time for a tailor. Take the dress, trust me, it's a solid option."

I was uneasy. "I don't think I'm ready," I blurted.

"You're never truly ready for something if you don't try."

I blinked. "You know what, you're right." I wasn't about to spill my secrets and confide in him. Not here, not now, and especially not in a fitting room we nearly destroyed.

I had to be the power. Or at least try. I was a good enough actress for that.

Looked like he got the memo. "Good."

"Dress fits." I put on my original clothes. "I wanna get out of here."