Page 39 of Spearcrest Rose
I text him back.
Rose: Me neither x
Itookfivedifferentoptions for what to wear at the gala, but as soon as I start getting ready, the perfect choice is obvious.
Four of the dresses are designer: an ephemeral Elie Saab beaded with thousands of crystals, two Dior gowns from the same collection, one blue and one silver, and a two-piece Miss Sohee in rose-petal pink.
The fifth is of my own creation.
It marries elements from all the other gowns. It has the structure and elegance of Dior, the dramatic silhouette of Miss Sohee, the delicate femininity of Elie Saab—and most of all, the character of a Dirty Princess look. The long skirt is layers of diaphanous material which will reveal my legs whenever I walk past a light source, and the plunging V-neck of the stiff bodice is adorned with embellishments that look like petals.
And it’s not just a dress. It’s a piece I’ve worked for hours on. A symbol of what I’m capable of achieving—a message to my father that this isn’t just a hobby, something to do to pass the time when I’m bored or an attempt at giving myself a personality.
This is my passion—my art. I constructed the rigid structure of the bodice myself, stabbing my fingers with needles over and over again. I painstakingly stitched and gathered the fabric at the collar to imitate flowers, and I layered the skirt so that it would both obscure and reveal.
This is my dress—my creation—and I’m proud of it.
And if my father can’t accept that this is what I want to do, then that’s his problem. I’m done letting him pull my strings. I’m done letting him control me just like he tried to control my mother. It’s time for me to stand up for myself.
And even though this night can only end with a broken heart, I’m at least glad I won’t be alone to do what I know I must.
Chapter 16
Cocktail Hour Torture
Noahisalittlelate, but he meets me in the hotel lobby just as I asked him to do. I notice him as soon as he walks in, not because he stands out or seems out of place—he doesn’t. Not as much as I expected him to, anyway. It’s obvious he’s made an effort, and with the work I did on his suit, he looks just as well-dressed as any of the men ambling in and out of the hotel bar.
I notice him because his eyes find mine straight away, and his face brightens up like he’s standing in the middle of a sunrise. His joy at seeing me is palatable; it fills the space between us like summer sunshine, warm and comforting.
He hurries to me, and even though we’re surrounded by the luxury of the hotel—marble and gold and crystal chandeliers—it’s me Noah seems the most impressed by.
“Wow, you look like a real princess,” he says, taking my hand and making me twirly slowly in front of him. “Are you sure you’re not royalty? What’s your full name again, Seraphina Rosenthal? You might be the future queen of some European country.”
I laugh, a little flustered that he’s remembered my name, but mostly comforted by his admiration.
“Please. I’m just a simple American girl.”
“No, you’re not.” He leans forward to kiss my cheek. “Nothing simple about you, Seph.” He pulls away and runs his hand up the nape of my neck. “You look nice with your hair up.”
“I do?” I ask, my cheeks flushing with heat.
“Mm-hm. You should wear it up more often.”
I give him a look. “You’d only mess it up, anyway.”
He smirks. “That’s the point.”
What part of Noah would I miss the most if I chose money over him? His strong body, his embraces, his kisses? His warmth, his shameless, open adoration and admiration? Talking to him, being with him, or fucking him? Laughing with him, teasing him, being teased by him?
All of it.
I’d miss all of it.
He gives me his arm. “Well? Shall we go? You know I’ve never been to a gala, right?”
“It’s basically like a super fancy dinner party, but journalists take your picture when you go in.”
He laughs. “You know I’ve never been to a dinner party either, right?”