I choose you

“Daria, if you don’t come out of that dressing room right now, I’m going to assume you strangled yourself with a corset and call emergency services. Actually, no—first I’ll drink their free prosecco, then I’ll call. Even rescue workers deserve an inspired audience!”

The voice of my best friend, Olivia, sounded as if she had not only completed the first part of her plan but was already working her way through the second bottle. I looked at myself in the mirror. In fact, the mirror answered me with a silent, confident approval, but inside, my inner critic was still stirring. He usually wore a strict business jacket buttoned all the way up and was afraid to even think about such necklines.

“Well?” came the impatient rustling from behind the curtain. “Are you negotiating with your conscience in there or what?”

“This is a dress code violation,” I said without taking my eyes off the mirror. “It’s not just pushing boundaries. It’s a direct assault on my common sense.”

“Which means we’re definitely buying it.”

Olivia rolled her eyes so theatrically that the saleswoman by the counter, who was already used to everything, could barely suppress a smile.

This was my best friend. It felt like we had known each other our entire lives. There probably wasn’t a single thought or secret we didn’t know about one another. Olivia understood me and knew exactly how to switch off my “good girl” mode. This bright, cheerful, dirty-blonde beast seemed to fill every space she entered with her charismatic energy. Responsibility? Olivia hadn’t even heard of such a word; her elements were fun, laughter, and the ability to turn a simple clothing choice into a real adventure. More than anyone else, she wanted me to be happy, but for some reason, from time to time, this manifested in little escapades like this dress.

The boutique itself felt more like the living room of an eccentric aristocrat than a regular store. High ceilings with crown molding, soft plush poufs in a ripe powder-pink shade, and diffused lighting that masterfully hid the fatigue under one’s eyes while highlighting the shimmer of the silk on the hangers. A faint scent of vanilla and expensive leather lingered in the air—the smell of success, which usually had to be paid for with several paychecks. The walls were lined with light velvet, and every mirror in its massive gold frame seemed to whisper, “You are perfect, just buy it.”

The saleswoman—a woman of indeterminate age with perfect posture and the gaze of someone who had seen every stage of female despair in front of a mirror—looked like part of the interior. Her dark blue sheath dress didn’t have a single wrinkle, and a polite half-smile was fixed on her face, equally fitting for approving a choice worth several thousand dollars or for showing sympathy over a broken nail. She moved silently, like a shadow, timely topping up Olivia’s glass with prosecco and vanishing the exact moment the friends wanted to discuss something private. It seemed she knew more about women’s secrets than any psychologist, yet she knew how to keep quiet about them just as professionally as she tied perfect bows on packaging boxes.

I finally pulled back the heavy velvet curtain.

“Oh, damn,” Olivia said softly, freezing with the glass in her hand. Her gaze slowly slid from my shoulders down to my heels.

Black silk clung to my body like a second skin—the kind that is usually hidden from outside eyes. But the real disaster was in the back.

“Is it bad?” my voice trembled slightly.

“Worse,” she smiled slowly. “Lethal.”

“Olivia, this isn’t a dress. This is a legal provocation. You can’t just stand around and drink wine in this. In this dress, you either need to sign the capitulation of the male sex or flee the crime scene.”

“Turn around,” Olivia commanded briefly.

I obediently turned around. My back was open almost to a critical limit. The thin line of my spine looked defenseless and yet bold against the background of the heavy dark fabric. I could feel the cool air on my skin, and the sensation was obscenely pleasant.

“Oh my God…” Olivia whispered. “Daria, if Stan sees you in this, he’ll finally forget about his business and his cat. Though... knowing Stan, he’s more likely to start looking for pockets in this dress to hold his car keys, or ask if the straps are too thin to withstand his hugs.”

I laughed, though the mention of Stan brought a slight, barely noticeable prickle of irritation. Stan was easygoing, cheerful, and sometimes a bit too lighthearted. His love for me was always seasoned with a dose of jokes and flirting with life. It competed with his love for fast cars and Murzyk, the cat he had picked up off the street. But lately, our relationship resembled a well-edited report: reliable, professional, and completely predictable.

“Stan likes everything simple and straightforward,” I remarked, examining the curve of my hip highlighted by the silk. “And this dress is chaos. Pure, unbridled chaos for all the money in the world.”

“That’s perfect! You need a little chaos, otherwise you’ll soon start speaking in citations from legal reference books.” Olivia stepped closer and adjusted an invisible fold for me. “This is an investment, darling. At thirty-nine, you should look so that young startup founders want to give you all their shares, and solid business sharks forget the words “risk diversification”.”

“Don’t you think it’s too much?” I glanced at my back again. “I’m the owner of an advertising agency, not a noir film heroine who just poisoned her wealthy husband and wants to escape the crime scene in an expensive car.”

“Daria, you are a woman going to a charity gala where the cream of the business world will be. You need to be like a fine wine: complex, deep, and with a long aftertaste. As for Stan... well, he’ll get over it. Ultimately, it’s just a dress.”

“This isn’t just a dress,” I ran my fingers over the fabric. “It makes me feel like I’m about to do something very wrong… But damn it, I like it.”

“Ooooh!” Olivia toasted me triumphantly with her glass. “Now that is the mood I need. Take it. And don’t you dare throw one of your “killer professional” blazers over it. The world needs to see this facade.”

I sighed, realizing that the surrender had already taken place.

“Fine. But if I accidentally seduce someone into treason there, you’re my alibi.”

“Deal,” Olivia smiled. “Though, knowing your intuition, you’ll find someone far more dangerous than a civil servant,” she wiggled her eyebrows.

I looked at myself once more. Floor-length black, light falling on delicate shoulders. I didn’t know yet that in a few hours, someone’s large, warm, strong palm would touch this very bare skin, making me forget about work, about Stan, and all the rules of marketing combined.

“We’re taking it,” I said resolutely. “And I’ll put it on the agency’s account. We’ll write it off as “strategic market positioning expenses”.”

Olivia burst into genuine laughter.

“I love your approach to business. You’re a genius at masking expenses.”

I wanted to object. But at that moment, I noticed another dress in her hands. It was deep wine-red, almost burgundy, with a plunging neckline and open shoulders. Significantly more revealing than mine.

“Hm... I hope that’s not for me?” I asked.

“Don’t even count on it. I’m not giving this baby up to you.”

“And what’s the occasion for such a seductive disaster?” I wondered.

Olivia froze for a second—a tiny pause in her eternal motion. It was barely noticeable. But I had known her long enough to catch that moment.

“A beautiful dress always comes in handy for a real girl,” she said lightheartedly, but a strange glint flashed in her eyes.

“You’re hiding something, my friend.”

She smiled that very “secret” smile used to shield oneself from overly candid questions.

“Don’t overthink it. Just felt like having something... spicy.”

“Olivia.”

She didn’t answer. She just turned around on her high heels and practically fled into the dressing room. The curtain closed with a characteristic rustle. I was left standing in front of the mirror.

Olivia went suspiciously quiet behind the curtain. Way too long a silence for a simple dress fitting. I leaned over and peeked past the edge of the fabric.

She was standing in front of the mirror in that burgundy dress, looking incredibly dreamy. Olivia was studying her reflection, smiling at her own thoughts, and then suddenly frowned, as if she had sunk into deep thought.

“Olivia?”

She startled, as if I had snapped her out of a dream.

“Oh, you’re here?” she quickly shifted her facial expression back to her usual cheerful manner. “Everything’s fine,” she said quickly.

“Are you sure?”

She raised her eyes. And for a second, there was something in them that I had never seen before. Not lightheartedness, irony, or flirtation.

Tension.

“Yes,” she replied curtly. “Alright, enough admiring! Let’s buy it and go, because this prosecco won’t drink itself!”

And no further explanations. It was the first time I had ever seen my friend so thoughtful and lost. Usually, she was cheerful, confident, and always had an answer for everything, but I decided not to try and pry out of her what she didn’t seem ready to talk about right now.