Emma didn’t do dressing rooms.

She did private showrooms, champagne flutes perched on mirrored trays, and stylists who knew better than to bring her anything off the rack. Today, though, she wasn’t alone.

Her partner spun slowly in front of a three-way mirror, laughing at something Emma had muttered under her breath. The sound was warm, human—dangerously disarming. Emma sat with legs crossed, icy gaze tracking the way silk hugged curves and defied gravity.

“You’re impossible,” she said finally, though her smirk betrayed the affection buried under her diamond-sharp edges.

In truth, she’d cleared her entire day just to watch her try things on. Power looked different in soft lighting.

And sometimes, luxury wasn’t the price tag. It was the company.