Sabrina stepped out of the fitting room, back in her earlier outfit—black top, slightly faded jeans, and the same old sneakers that had been through too many late-night grocery runs. Her hair was still in that barely-holding-it-together bun, and she carried the three dresses carefully on hangers like a waitress balancing champagne flutes.
Thaddeus looked up from his phone the second he heard her steps. His eyes traveled from her face to her jeans, then to the gowns in her hand—and just like that, his expression tightened.
He didn't say anything at first, just gave her that slow blink like his patience had taken a direct hit.
"You're kidding," he finally said, dry as toast. "You tried on all of them and walked out looking exactly like you did when I picked you up?"
Sabrina shrugged. "What? I'm not wearing a thousand-dollar dress just to get back in the car. What if I trip over the hem and crack my teeth on your dashboard?"
Thaddeus leaned back slightly, jaw tense. "I brought you here to see you in them. Not to hear about your dental plan."
"Well, good news," she said, holding up the hangers. "They look great on the rack and even better in the mirror. So unless you need a twirl and a spin like I'm auditioning for a runway show, I think we're good."
"I do need a twirl," he said flatly.
Sabrina blinked. "You're serious?"
"I don't buy clothes for people unless I know they work."
"I already know they work. My reflection nearly proposed to me."
He didn't laugh or smirk. Just stared her down like she was making his life unnecessarily difficult—which, to be fair, she kind of was.
With an exaggerated groan, she turned around and marched back into the fitting room.
"You know," she called from behind the curtain, "normal husbands buy flowers or snacks. You bring high fashion and attitude."
"That's because I'm not normal," he replied, without missing a beat.
"Yeah," she muttered to herself, yanking the zipper on the emerald green dress. "Tell me about it."
A few minutes later, the curtain rustled and Sabrina stepped out—this time in the emerald green dress. The silk clung to her just right, catching the boutique's golden lighting like it had been stitched by actual sorcery. She tugged at the strap awkwardly, glancing down at her body like she wasn't sure how it was even hers.
"Well?" she said, arms half-spreading like she presented herself on a game show. "Happy now?"
Thaddeus looked up again, and this time, the silence that followed was different. He didn't blink. His jaw flexed just once, and his gaze held on her like he was recalculating something important in that infuriating brain of his.
Sabrina shifted her weight. "Okay, now you're being weird. Is it bad? Do I look like a sequined pickle? Be honest."
"No," he said quietly. "It works."
Her brow lifted. "That's it? That's your big fashion critique?"
"I'm not a stylist," he replied. "You look good. That's what matters."
She huffed but couldn't help the tiny smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're really bad at compliments, you know that?"
"I'm good enough to know that dress is coming with us."
Before she could reply, he added, "Try the other two."
"You're not gonna clap or snap your fingers after each one, are you?"
Thaddeus leaned forward, one arm resting casually on the armrest. "Only if you fall on your face. Then I'll consider applause."
She rolled her eyes but went back in.
Next up was the midnight blue velvet. The moment she stepped out, she felt a shift in the air. It hugged her figure with quiet drama, the kind that whispered class instead of screaming for attention.
Thaddeus looked up again, slower this time. No comment. Just another long look that said way too much without saying anything at all.
"Still no clapping?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
"I'm not trying to get kicked out of a luxury boutique for public applause," he replied. "You're keeping that one too."
She stared at him. "You really don't do small talk, huh?"
"I don't believe in wasting time," he said, already motioning toward the last one.
She grumbled something under her breath and changed into the black lace dress. The moment she walked out, she already knew this one was the winner. It was confident. It was sharp. It was her.
Thaddeus gave a barely noticeable nod. "That one's trouble."
She blinked. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Both," he said.
She let out a breathy laugh and stepped down from the platform. "Okay, I'm done. You've seen me twirl in enough overpriced fabrics for one night."
He stood as she disappeared back into the fitting room. "Get changed. We're not done yet."
Sabrina popped her head out. "There's more?"
"You didn't think I dragged you out just for a fashion show, did you?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Honestly, with you? It was a strong possibility."
Thaddeus smirked, just slightly. "Hurry up."
Sabrina ducked back in and muttered to herself, "He's lucky I didn't wear those dumpling pants after all."
Sabrina stepped out in her regular clothes again—shirt slightly wrinkled now, jeans a little looser after all that dressing and undressing. She gathered the three dresses and more casual dresses, now neatly packed in high-end garment bags with gold tags that probably cost more than her rent. Her feet ached. Her brain hurt. And she still didn't know what any of this was actually for.
Thaddeus was already at the front counter, signing something with that bored, money-doesn't-sleep look on his face. One of the boutique assistants handed the bags over like sacred relics. Sabrina blinked at them, then at him.
"Seriously," she said, catching up to him. "What's the deal? Are you preparing me for a secret mission? Some high-society ball I forgot I RSVP'd to?"
"No," he said without looking at her. "You're not walking into the mansion dressed like you just crawled out of a group project and a breakup."
She nearly tripped. "Wait—mansion?"
Now he looked at her. "Yes."
"That's where we're going?"
"That's where we live."
Sabrina stared at him like he had just told her they were time-traveling next.
"Thaddeus," she said slowly, "we got married in a boardroom with a lawyer, no rings, and an NDA thicker than a phone book. I didn't think that included moving into your actual castle."
He raised an eyebrow. "What did you think it meant?"
"I thought it meant I go home, you go home, and we occasionally show up in public smiling awkwardly like a politician and his least favorite intern."
He let out a breath—something between a sigh and a laugh. "You signed on to be my wife, Sabrina. That doesn't mean staying in your shoebox apartment eating instant noodles forever."
"Hey. That shoebox has character."
"It has mold."
She scowled. "That's just... atmospheric aging."
Thaddeus gestured toward the exit. "Come on. People's waiting."
She followed him reluctantly, her hands full of luxury, her head full of confusion. "You know," she muttered, "normal husbands take their wives on dates. Bring flowers. Maybe a sandwich. Not throw them into a couture fever dream and then drop 'you're moving in' like a bomb."
He didn't stop walking. "I'm not a normal husband."
"Oh, believe me," she said, dragging the dress bags behind her, "I got that part."
Thaddeus didn't respond. Not even a grunt. Instead, he gave a small nod toward the boutique staff, and instantly, one of the women—tall, all polished smiles and designer perfume—stepped forward like she'd been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
"Mrs. Gillcrest," she said smoothly, "if you'll come with me, we've prepared the private styling room."
Sabrina blinked. "Wait, what now?"
"You'll be getting your hair styled, a light touch of makeup, and the proper shoes and accessories to go with your selections," the woman explained, already guiding her gently but firmly toward the back.
Sabrina turned her head to shoot a look at Thaddeus. "Are you kidding me? You're having me styled now? Like, I'm going to a movie premiere?"
He didn't even glance at her. "You want to walk into the Gillcrest estate looking like a lost intern from a college coffee shop?"
Sabrina planted her feet, her voice rising a notch. "I'm comfortable with it."
He finally met her eyes. "You were in sneakers with holes."
She threw up her hands. "That's ventilation!"
He looked back at the boutique associate. "Take her."
"Yes, sir."
Sabrina was halfway through an eye-roll when another boutique staff member swooped in, handing her a fresh glass of sparkling water like she was being bribed into submission. Before she could protest, she was gently ushered into a private suite with mirrors that stretched wall-to-wall, plush ivory chairs, and a whole station set up like the backstage of a runway.
A stylist with perfectly coifed hair greeted her like an old friend. "Don't worry, darling. We'll have you looking like a queen in no time."
"I didn't ask to be royalty," Sabrina muttered as she was seated and promptly draped in a soft silk robe. "I just wanted to eat my noodles in peace tonight."
But within minutes, her hair was up in rollers, her face dotted with foundation swatches, and two more staff were circling her like graceful vultures, measuring heels, adjusting jewelry, debating clutch bags.
As they worked, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The transformation was subtle but sharp—mascara lifting her tired eyes, her hair now swept into soft waves, cheekbones suddenly looking a little more dangerous than usual.
They helped her into the emerald green gown again—this time complete with matching stilettos, a glittering bracelet, and a small evening clutch she didn't even want to know the price of.
Sabrina turned slowly in front of the mirror, jaw slightly slack. "Okay… okay, that's actually terrifying."
The stylist smiled behind her. "It's called elegance."
"It's called a trap," she muttered. "He's trying to distract me with glitter so I won't question what the hell is going on."
When she finally walked back out into the main room, Thaddeus was standing with his hands in his pockets, glancing at his watch like he hadn't just orchestrated her complete transformation.
His eyes lifted. And stayed there.
He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her.
Sabrina shifted on her heels, suddenly aware of every shiny inch of herself. "Okay, say something. Or blink. You're kind of doing the scary statue thing."
His lips twitched. "Now you look the part."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what part is that exactly?"
"My wife."
Her stomach did a weird, flippy thing, which she absolutely ignored. Instead, she grabbed the clutch bag like it owed her money and marched past him.
"Come on, hubby. Let's go crash your castle."