↳ 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐑 ー 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

𝐗𝐋𝐕 ー 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬

◉

With a hopeful expression and a positive mindset, Sierra turns around with two expensive dresses in hand which she holds up, dangling them before the stoic man in the doorway.

"Which dress?"

She waits patiently for him to carefully examine each article of clothing with his meticulous grey eyes. He's currently leant against the doorframe in the doorway, which his frame completely blocks, with his arms folded. Takes his time while he ponders.

"Neither," he finally answers. The unexpected response drags her shoulders towards the floor.

"Grayー"

"I hate both of them."

Her eyes narrow. "You approved of these when I tried them on in the store." Not one negative comment was made during their time in the fitting rooms.

"Maybe it was the lighting."

"Maybe it's you being awkward."

"You asked for my opinion and my help. I'm delivering on both accounts."

"Fine." She slots them back where they belong before stepping away, hands on her hips. "If you have such a good eye you choose."

With what she assumes to be an air of smugness, Grayson steps further into the walk-in closet to scour each and every dress that has been hung up with care. All of which are arranged by colour for a more appealing look.

Not that he seems to pay a flicker of attention to the minute detail since he slides a chunk of the colourful ones aside.

"This one." He tugs on the soft black fabric.

"You just picked the one that shows the most skin."

"Do you want to stand out? They won't be looking at him they'll be looking at you."

"Not necessarily."

"Other couples will see you as arm candy. Hosts and press will see you as the woman he slaughtered thousands for."

He's right. It's not something she'd want to admit out loud for fear of being suffocated by his ego, but it's true.

She exhales and plucks the selected dress from the illuminated section, catching his conceited little smirk as he exits the room to give her privacy.

Some time later she carefully descends the staircase, flicking her perfectly straight hair over her shoulder on her way. To regain his attention she twirls and awaits his judgement, daring to wear part of a smile while his icy orbs roam over her.

"You chose those heels?"

Her lips flatten as she glimpses the stilettos lined with gold. "What's wrong with them?"

"You complain they hurt."

"They go with the dress you chose."

"I'm just trying to save my brother from the headache," he admits.

"You're a headache."