The boutique was quiet, humming with low jazz and cooler air than expected. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors caught everything, even the insecurities they pretended not to wear. But all of that fell away when Iris stepped out of the dressing room.
She was shaped like a woman who moved with intention—tall, toned, built more like a dancer who knew how to fight. Her hips didn't lie or whisper—they walked into the room first, bold and unbothered. Her waist dipped in just enough to make the emerald satin hug her like a second skin. It gripped her ribs, defined the slope beneath her bust, and held firm across a chest that didn't need exaggeration—just appreciation.
The neckline swept just above her collarbone in an angular curve, elegant but unapologetic. The back? Gone. The fabric dipped low, nearly scandalous, but balanced by the way it wrapped up around her shoulders like armor disguised as design. The dress flared from her waist, not wide but full enough to move. And it moved. When she turned, the hem glided around her legs like liquid, kissing her ankles then retreating, as if the dress couldn't believe it got to touch her.
She wasn't cute in it. She wasn't sweet.
She was dangerous.
And then there was Isabella.
Isabella didn't walk. She glided like someone who'd been told the world was hers—and believed it. Her body was built like a slow-burning storm—soft in the right places, dangerous in the others. Full hips, long legs, and a small waist that curved like sin. Her shoulders were squared with intention, posture perfect like she dared the room to slouch.
She wore black—real black. Not navy. Not charcoal. Black. The dress clung like a lover, sheer in strategic places, layered over satin that shimmered with faint metallics when she moved. It wrapped across her chest and then dipped low, not out of necessity, but statement. One slit rode high up her thigh, showing off toned legs that weren't built for the gym, but for power. Confidence.
"You're staring," Isabella said, watching Iris in the mirror.
"Because I don't recognize myself," Iris replied, still turning, eyes catching the green reflecting in the gold around her.
"You should," Isabella said, stepping closer, hands on Iris's shoulders. "That's always been in you. Tonight just reminds them."
Iris laughed lightly. Nervous. Flushed. The lipstick was a deep wine-red now, just dark enough to be seductive, but bold enough to read from across a crowded room. Her hair had been pulled up into something messy but intentional—tendrils falling near her cheekbones, accentuating the sharpness of her jaw and the softness behind her eyes.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Iris confessed, suddenly low.
"Yes you do," Isabella countered. "You've just never let yourself."
There was a beat.
And then: "So… this Aldrin guy. What's the plan?"
Iris looked away. "To not embarrass myself at a gala where I'm pretending we're dating and maybe failing not to mean it."
Isabella smiled. Slowly. "Then it's not a plan. It's a confession in a pretty dress."
They both laughed. Not high-pitched giggles, but real, belly-deep sounds. The kind that came after sleepless nights and too many shared bottles of wine. The kind of laugh that came when you looked in the mirror and, for once, liked what looked back.
Heels clicked as they walked out, and the boutique doors opened into the night.
Not two women.
Two warnings.
Outside the boutique, the city was dressed in gold—streetlights spilling over sleek cars, laughter leaking from rooftop lounges, and wind catching the hem of Iris's dress like it wanted her to fly.
Inside the car, though, there was silence.
Isabella sat beside her, scrolling casually through her phone, but Iris barely noticed. Her fingers traced the edge of her clutch absentmindedly, her mind adrift in the space between silk and certainty.
She'd looked beautiful tonight. She knew it. She wasn't being modest about it—she could feel it. The dress didn't just fit her body; it honored it. But the truth was, she hadn't chosen the gown just to look flawless.
She'd chosen it because she wanted to be seen.
And the person she wanted to see her? Was Aldrin.
There it was. A truth she'd been dodging with sniper-like precision in boardrooms, meetings, and mission briefs.
But tonight, there was no cover story. No lie to hide behind. No "fake boyfriend" script or hallway flirtations. Just the echo of her heartbeat in an empty passenger seat and the image of Aldrin's quiet eyes the last time he'd looked at her—not with tension, not with duty—but something softer. Something she didn't trust.
Was it real? Or was it a side-effect of proximity and adrenaline? The closeness forged in crisis had its own rules—rules that warped emotions and turned glances into gravity. But this… this gala… it wasn't war. It wasn't survival. It was choice.
And she was choosing to go.
Not because of some tactical reason.
Because she wanted to.
Isabella looked up from her phone, watching her friend spiral inward.
"You're thinking too much."
"I'm trying not to," Iris said, voice low, almost afraid the truth would fall out.
Isabella cocked a brow. "So is it him? Or is it the heat of the moment that made you feel something?"
Iris looked out the window, the blur of passing lights smearing like thoughts she couldn't pin down. "That's just it… I've seen him in the heat. I've seen him bloodied, focused, ruthless, in control… but I've also seen him listening. Laughing. Staring at the sunset like he's asking it for permission to breathe."
"And?"
"And now I don't know which version of him I like more. Or if I like all of it. Or if I'm just projecting something safe into someone dangerous."
Isabella leaned forward, gaze sharp now, the teasing gone.
"Listen to me, Iris. When the chaos dies down, when the fire isn't roaring and no one's asking you to fake anything… what's left is your truth. That's the version you chase. So tonight, I want you to look him in the eye—not during a mission, not after a close call, not while pretending you don't care. Look at him with intention. And see what he shows you."
Iris swallowed hard.
"Because if what you're feeling is real," Isabella added, smirking, "no dress in the world is gonna help you hide it."
The car slowed in front of a limestone building, the entrance wrapped in velvet ropes and lit like a scene from a dream. Paparazzi flanked the sidewalk. Music leaked from somewhere above. Guests floated inside in suits like armor and gowns like smoke.
Iris stepped out, heels hitting the ground like punctuation marks.
She felt different.
Not as someone who needed to be seen.
But someone ready to see clearly.
And maybe—just maybe—that was the most dangerous thing of all.