Chapter 115
Raphael intended to take Mila directly to the atelier of an internationally renowned bridal designer—a woman who catered exclusively to Hollywood royalty and high-ranking celebrities.
The prospect made Mila’s stomach twist in nervous knots. She wasn’t a celebrity, nor was she a fashion icon; she was a quiet publicist who preferred blending into the background. Meanwhile, Raphael’s razor-sharp style was emulated by millions across the globe. She was terrified of embarrassing him in a space meant for high society.
"Is it truly necessary to source a gown from your personal designer?" Mila asked hesitantly, her fingers nervously picking at the seam of her trousers.
"Of course," Raphael replied smoothly, his thumb scrolling across the glowing display of his phone as their luxury sedan glided through the city. "If I were to commission my wedding attire elsewhere, she would take it as a personal insult."
"Then why don’t you let her design your suit, and I’ll find a gown somewhere else?" Mila suggested, silently adding, somewhere with a bargain rack.
"Absurd," Raphael scoffed, finally lifting his striking gaze from his device. A sweet, devastatingly handsome smile curved his lips. "How would it look if the groom arrived in custom couture while his bride wore an off-the-rack dress? You deserve the finest gown in the city."
A hot flush swept across Mila’s cheeks, her pulse quickening under his intent gaze. She hurriedly looked out the rain-slicked window to break the spell his bright blue eyes were weaving over her. In the leather-scented, enclosed cabin of the vehicle, there was nowhere to hide from his overwhelming, magnetic presence.
"They are going to be astronomically expensive," she mumbled under her breath, watching the city skyline blur past.
"Leave the finances to me, sweetheart," he murmured softly.
Mila swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, touched by the quiet consideration in his tone. It struck her then that despite her frequent sharp orders, strict scheduling, and occasional professional scolding as his PR director, Raphael had never once raised his voice or acted cruelly toward her.
The remainder of the drive passed in comfortable silence. Raphael engaged in a low-voiced business call regarding upcoming studio contracts, while Mila meticulously answered press emails on her tablet, determined to clear her workload before the ceremony.
When the driver pulled up to the gated boutique, Raphael remained glued to his call. The bodyguard held open the passenger door, and Raphael stepped onto the pavement, habitually gesturing for Mila to follow. She gathered her coat and stepped into the cool air, keeping close behind him.
The moment Raphael pushed through the tall glass doors of the exclusive showroom, a wave of attentive saleswomen swarmed toward him. Every associate in the building yearned for the privilege of serving Raphael Dumas, but one senior stylist maneuvered past the others with practiced ease.
"Good evening, Mr. Dumas," she purred, her eyes wide with starry-eyed fascination as she took in his broad-shouldered frame and flawless features. "It is an honor. How may we assist you today?"
Raphael offered no immediate response, raising a single finger to signal that he was finalizing his call. Seeing him preoccupied, Mila took the initiative to step forward.
"We have an appointment to pull a selection of wedding gowns," Mila informed her, her eyes drifting across the opulent space.
The showroom was a haven of extravagant luxury. Crystal chandeliers hung from ornate ceilings, casting a warm, starry glow onto thick velvet carpets that muffled every footstep. Mannequins draped in breathtaking lace, silk, and pearl-encrusted gowns stood elevated on marble pedestals. The air carried a delicate scent of white tea and rare blossoms, underscoring the exclusivity of the establishment.
The associate shifted her gaze to Mila, her warm smile instantly curdling into a cold, judgmental sneer. Taking in Mila’s oversized wool coat, plain tailored trousers, and lack of designer accessories, the woman dismissed her entirely, returning her eager gaze to Raphael.
Mila let out a small, tired sigh. As Raphael’s manager, she was thoroughly accustomed to the subtle elitism of high-end establishments. Ordinarily, she would have ignored the disrespect and let it slide. But today, her schedule was tightly packed: following the dress trial, they had a confectioner’s cake tasting, and she still needed to visit her grandmother at the care facility.
Refusing to let the woman’s arrogance derail her evening, Mila squared her shoulders and stepped directly into the associate’s line of sight.
"I am the one trying on the wedding gowns," Mila repeated, her voice steady and commanding.
Reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the movie star, the associate finally looked Mila in the eye. Her gaze narrowed in cold scrutiny, taking in Mila’s practical attire before giving a stiff, icy nod.
"Follow me," she said flatly, her polite demeanor vanishing entirely.
Mila glanced back at Raphael. He was still pacing near the entrance, deeply engrossed in his phone conversation, completely oblivious to the interaction. Suppressing another sigh, Mila followed the associate deeper into the boutique. She couldn’t help but admire the magnificent craftsmanship of the gowns lining the perimeter—the delicate hand-stitched lace, the shimmering train trails, the ethereal soft lighting designed to make every diamond bead sparkle. It was a fairy-tale world she had only ever observed from the fringes.
They arrived at a private VIP fitting suite enclosed by heavy, wine-red velvet drapes. The associate pulled the fabric aside, revealing a grand room lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and plush silk seating.
"I have a few options in the back that might better suit your... modest means," the associate said, gesturing toward a dimly lit alcove in the corner. "They are production samples scheduled to be written off due to minor manufacturing flaws. We occasionally pass them to liquidators, but I suppose you can browse through them."
Mila looked over the small rack and selected two simple silk gowns. She held no romantic illusions about this contract marriage, so the specific design mattered little to her. However, knowing she would be standing beside Raphael Dumas under the blinding flash of national paparazzi, she needed to look presentable.
"These two will do," Mila said.
The associate unhooked the hangers and thrust the heavy silk garments roughly into Mila’s arms, nearly causing her to lose her grip on the delicate fabric.
"Handle them with care; we cannot afford snags," the woman warned snidely, her posture stiff with disdain. "I will wait outside. Do try to be quick."
Without another word, the associate turned on her heel and strode out of the fitting room, leaving Mila standing alone amidst the cold expanse of mirrors.