Chapter 6 — The Glass Slipper in 2XL

The gilded glass doors of Maison de Villon on Rodeo Drive clicked shut, sealing out the roaring engines of Beverly Hills. Inside, the boutique was a cathedral of minimalist luxury—polished white marble, brushed champagne gold racks, and a heavy scent of white tea and expensive silk.

Melody stood in the center of the showroom, her worn sneakers resting awkwardly on a hand-knotted silk rug.

She had never felt more like an alien. Her hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of her oversized gray fleece hoodie, her fingers nervously picking at the seams. She kept her round, black-rimmed glasses pushed up her nose, her eyes darting toward the security guards.

"I don't have all day, typing machine," Kaelen Thorne growled from the velvet lounge area.

He was sprawled across a charcoal-gray minimalist sofa, his long legs stretched out, his fingers tapping a restless, erratic rhythm against his knee. He looked intensely irritable, his jaw shadowed with a dark stubble, his icy blue eyes rimmed with red from another sleepless night.

Beside him stood the boutique’s creative director, a sleek man in a sharp tailored suit who was practically sweating in his eagerness to please the rock star.

"Mr. Thorne, we have gathered our finest autumn haute couture collection," the director murmured, waving a hand toward a rolling rack of microscopic silk slip dresses. "All standard sample sizes, perfect for the gala."

Kaelen didn't even look at the rack. His gaze snapped to Melody, his lips curling into a familiar, volatile sneer.

"Are you blind, or just stupid? Look at her. Do you honestly think she fits into a French sample size? Clear the racks. Bring out the bespoke luxury line. Everything you have in her size. Now."

The director blinked, his professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second before he scrambled toward the back rooms.

Melody’s face burned a furious, hot crimson. The humiliation was a heavy weight in her chest. He was treating her like a public project, dragging her here under the guise of an executive order just to fulfill his midnight promise to Siren.

"Go," Kaelen ordered, throwing a glance toward a massive, velvet-curtained fitting room. "If you don't find a dress that looks like it belongs on a human being instead of a laundry basket within twenty minutes, I’m deducting the boutique’s premium fee from your salary."

Melody bit her inner cheek, swallowed the stutter rising in her throat, and marched into the fitting room.

Ten minutes later, the velvet curtains remained tightly shut. Inside, Melody stared at herself in the triple-panel mirror.

The boutique staff had brought in a masterpiece—a heavy, midnight-emerald silk gown with an asymmetrical neckline and a structure that defied the typical restrictions of high fashion. It had a built-in corsetry that nipped her waist, while the rich fabric flowed like liquid water over her generous, round hips. The thigh-high slit exposed the curve of her leg.

She took off her glasses. Her smoky grey eyes looked wide, startled, and entirely too vulnerable. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded over her bare shoulders in loose, natural waves.

"Melody," Kaelen’s voice cut through the curtain, sharp and laced with an aggressive impatience that made her jump. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m tearing the curtain down myself."

"I'm... I'm coming," she called out, her voice caught in her throat.

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath—the exact breathing exercises she used to calm him through the wire at night—Melody parted the velvet drapes and stepped onto the small marble pedestal in the main showroom.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Kaelen Thorne froze. The glass of sparkling water he had been holding remained suspended halfway to his mouth. His icy blue eyes widened, the pupils dilating until the blue was nearly swallowed by black.

For the first time since he had hired her, he didn't see a clumsy, stuttering assistant. He didn't see an out-of-order typing machine. He saw a masterpiece hidden in plain sight.

The emerald silk clung to her body like a second skin, highlighting a magnificent, dangerous hourglass silhouette that his 2XL hoodies had completely buried. Her skin was a flawless, creamy porcelain against the dark green fabric. Her exposed collarbones were delicate, elegant, and perfectly defined.

A violent, suffocating wave of possessive awe hit Kaelen right in the chest. It was a physical blow that left him breathless.

His mind began to spin, fracturing into a terrifying state of deja vu. He stared at her collarbones, plagued by a maddening, visceral sensation. His fingers twitched against his thigh.

He felt a phantom warmth in his palms, a deep instinctual certainty that his calloused hands had traced that exact, delicate curve before. He had felt this specific shape, this exact heat, in the pitch-black suite of the Chateau Marmont.

No, he thought, his chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out across his neck. No, it’s impossible. She’s an idiot. She’s an incompetent little mouse.

But the line between his daytime reality and his night muse was blurring, melting his psychological defenses into absolute dust.

Melody felt his predatory gaze burning through her, and her heart rate went entirely wild. She desperately tried to repress the tremor in her hands, terrified that her body would betray her secret. "Is... is it acceptable, Mr. Thorne? Or should I change back into—"

"Don't touch it," Kaelen interrupted, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that was dangerously intimate. He stood up from the sofa, his six-foot-two frame instantly commanding the entire room.

The boutique director hurried forward, holding out a designer business card. "An exquisite choice, Mr. Thorne! If she would like to try a few more pieces in our catalogue—"

"No," Kaelen snapped, his eyes never leaving Melody’s face. He stepped onto the pedestal, his shadow completely enveloping her. He reached out, his hand hovering over her bare shoulder, close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin, though he didn't quite touch her.

"We’re taking this one. And every other gown, skirt, and silk blouse you have in the back that fits her size. Charge it to my personal black card. If I see another man looking at her in these dressing rooms, I'll buy the entire building just to fire you."

The director gasped, nodding frantically as he rushed to process the astronomical transaction.

Melody’s breath hitched. She looked up into Kaelen's eyes, seeing a strange, manic wildness in them—a look that belonged to the broken sinner who knelt at her feet at 2:00 AM, not the arrogant rock star.

A sudden, sharp sting of tinnitus flared in Kaelen's ears, a high-pitched ring that made his jaw clench. The sound always triggered a deep, buried memory—the soft, ghost-like voice of Elena Vance, his deceased mother.

Elena had been a classical pianist, a woman whose gentle melodies had been his only comfort during his childhood bipolar episodes, before her sudden death left him stranded in the dark.

For years, he had been searching for that phantom comfort, a vocal sanctuary that he had only found again when Siren answered his call.

He stared down at Melody’s lips, his chest tightening with a confusing, violent urge to protect her, to hide her from the rest of the world. He hated how much she was beginning to occupy his mind.

"Change back into your clothes," Kaelen muttered roughly, turning his back to her as if fighting his own mind. "The car is waiting."

Ten minutes later, Melody stepped out of the boutique, back in her ruined vintage jacket and 2XL hoodie, while three boutique assistants carried massive, silk-lined garment bags behind her.

The moment the glass doors opened, a small crowd of paparazzi emerged from the corners of Rodeo Drive, their camera lenses flashing like strobe lights against the afternoon sun. Melody panicked, instinctively shrinking back, her stutter rising as she choked on the sudden noise.

"Mr. Thorne! Who is the girl?"

"Is she your new muse, Kaelen?"

Before a single photographer could get close enough to catch her face, Kaelen moved with lightning speed. He roughly pushed past the luxury brand director who was trying to offer a parting business card, using his massive frame to block the lenses entirely.

Breaking all executive and safety protocol, Kaelen grabbed the handle of the luxury black SUV himself. He swung the door wide, his large, calloused hand reaching up to firmly shield the top of Melody’s head, ensuring she didn't hit the roof as he practically shoved her into the protective leather darkness of the backseat.

He slammed the door shut behind them, leaving the flashing lights outside, the heavy scent of his oud cologne filling the quiet car as he sat right beside her, his chest heaving, his blue eyes fixed on her face with a terrifying, unyielding fixation.