Chapter 3 - THE DRESS MAKER'S TOUCH
Three weeks into the renovation, the diner had been completely gutted and rebuilt into a stunning, two-story modern bistro.
The old Formica counters were replaced with polished black marble. The cracked linoleum was gone, superseded by dark, herringbone-patterned oak floors. The lighting was soft, golden, and intimate, casting a warm glow over velvet-upholstered booths designed specifically to make guests feel enclosed in their own private world.
Mave had thrown herself into the work with a ferocious intensity. She hired the kitchen staff, tested recipes with a top executive chef Roman brought in from Manhattan, and managed the supplier contracts with an efficiency that surprised even Roman's hardened accountant.
She was no longer the exhausted girl in the mustard uniform. She was the commander of a sixty-seat luxury restaurant.
On a Friday evening, two weeks before the grand opening, Roman's driver pulled up outside Mave's apartment building.
Marco—the scarred enforcer who had opened the diner door three weeks ago—knocked on her apartment door. He carried a large, flat black box tied with a satin ribbon.
"Mr. Costa asks that you wear this tonight," Marco said politely, handing her the box. "A car is waiting downstairs to take you to the private tasting."
Mave took the box, her brow furrowing. "A private tasting?"
"To finalize the wine list and the menu," Marco explained. "Mr. Costa believes the general manager should approve every vintage."
After Marco left, Mave carried the box to her small living room and placed it on her worn sofa. She pulled the satin ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a dress.
It was made of deep emerald-green silk, cut with a flattering wrap front, a fitted waist, and long, elegant sleeves that tapered at the wrists. Beside the dress lay a pair of designer leather heels with reinforced arch support—a subtle, thoughtful touch that proved Roman had paid attention to her complaints about her aching feet.
Mave ran her fingers over the silk. It felt like liquid fire against her skin.
For twenty-eight years, she had dressed to hide. She wore oversized sweaters, dark colors, and shapeless coats designed to make her broad frame blend into the background.
This dress was not designed to hide. It was designed to showcase.
She showered, did her hair in a soft, elegant updo, and applied a subtle layer of red lipstick. When she stepped into the dress, her breath caught in her throat.
The green silk draped over her heavy hips, pulled tight around her waist, and showcased her ample bosom without being trashy. It celebrated every curve, every inch of her size-16 frame, making her look not heavy, but regal, voluptuous, and impossibly desirable.
For the first time in her life, Mave looked in the mirror and didn't see an invisible waitress. She saw a stunning woman.
When she stepped out of her apartment building, Marco held the car door open for her, his eyes widening in genuine respect as she got in.
The car drove downtown, passing the commercial district and entering an exclusive, gated estate overlooking the harbor. The car pulled up to a grand, stone villa surrounded by tall wrought-iron gates and heavily armed guards.
"This isn't the restaurant," Mave said, looking out the window.
"The tasting is at Mr. Costa's personal residence," Marco replied, opening her door. "He preferred privacy tonight."
Mave's heart thudded against her ribs as she stepped out into the crisp night air. She walked up the grand stone steps, the front doors opening automatically before she could reach for the handle.
The interior of Roman's home was a masterclass in minimalist luxury—high ceilings, dark wood accents, expensive art, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing city skyline below.
Roman stood near the fireplace in the main salon, holding a crystal glass of bourbon.
He wore a dark velvet dinner jacket over a open-collared black shirt. When he turned and saw Mave standing in the entryway, he froze.
His slate-gray eyes swept down her body—taking in the emerald dress, the way the silk clung to her waist, the rich curve of her hips, and the flushed skin of her neck.
Silence stretched between them for five long, intoxicating seconds.
Roman set his bourbon glass down on the marble mantelpiece with a slow, deliberate movement. He walked toward her, his dark eyes burning with a hunger so intense it made Mave's breath hitch in her throat.
"Mave," he murmured, stopping inches from her. His voice was lower than she had ever heard it, rough with suppressed desire. "You are... breathtaking."
"The dress fits," Mave said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. "Thank you. And thank you for the shoes. They're actually comfortable."
Roman didn't look at the shoes. His eyes remained locked on her face. "The dress is merely fabric, Mave. It is the woman inside it that takes my breath away."
He reached out, his long fingers gently hooking beneath her chin, lifting her face so she had no choice but to look at him. His touch was warm, firm, and filled with an absolute reverence that melted her remaining defenses.
"I spent ten years surrounding myself with women who starved themselves to fit into a model's dress," Roman said softly, his thumb tracing the full curve of her lower lip. "Women who were hollow, empty, and terrified of taking up space. You... you fill a room, Mave. You have life, warmth, and strength in every inch of your body. Never apologize for who you are."
Mave felt tears prickling behind her eyes. No man had ever spoken to her like this. No man had ever looked at her heavy body and seen beauty instead of a compromise.
"Roman..." she whispered, her hands rising to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath the velvet jacket.
"Tonight is not about business, Mave," Roman murmured, leaning down until his lips were mere millimeters from hers. "Tonight is about me showing you what your life could be if you stop running from me."
Before she could answer, the double doors at the end of the hall burst open.
A guard covered in blood tumbled into the salon, collapsing onto the Persian rug.
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"Mr. Costa!" the guard gasped, coughing up blood. "It's Vane... they bypassed the outer perimeter..."
The sharp, deafening chatter of automatic gunfire erupted from the courtyard outside, shattering the floor-to-ceiling glass windows into a million sparkling shards.
