Chapter 6: Dominic

Dominic stood in the middle of Melissa's opulent fashion boutique, the rich aroma of leather and faint hints of sandalwood surrounding him. The space was an architectural marvel, with arched ceilings and walls adorned with framed sketches of haute couture designs. The mannequins, draped in exquisite gowns, stood poised and graceful like silent sentinels guarding their realm of luxury.

Each figure exuded elegance, their slender forms a testament to the perfection Melissa demanded of her creations. Dominic admired them all, his artist's eye tracing every seam and curve with quiet appreciation. But one mannequin in particular caught his attention—a stripped one, bare and unadorned, its simplicity a stark contrast to the lavish gowns around it.

Slowly, almost reverently, he stepped closer. His long fingers reached out, brushing against the cool, polished surface of the mannequin's perfectly shaped breasts. He trailed his touch down its smooth waist, over the gentle curve of its hips. It was an intimate, almost romantic gesture, as if he were caressing a living muse rather than an inanimate form.

Dominic's lips curled into a faint smile as his fingers traced the delicate arch of the mannequin's neck, then moved down its rigid arms. Finally, he stood back, a look of satisfaction flickering across his face.

"This size," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "is perfect."

Melissa, standing behind the counter with her air of effortless sophistication, arched one impeccably groomed brow. Dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit, her sharp cheekbones and piercing gaze gave her an aura of untouchable perfection.

"Make a dress of this fitting," Dominic commanded, his tone as smooth as velvet.

Melissa tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Whatever for? A model?"

Dominic turned to her, his expression inscrutable but the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "I happen to be planning a date."

The statement hung in the air like a thunderclap, its weight so unexpected that Melissa's composure faltered. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her perfectly lined lips parting as though she were about to protest.

"A date?" she repeated, as though the word itself were foreign in her mouth.

Dominic nodded, his calm demeanor unshaken.

Melissa blinked, still reeling. "With someone?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes," he replied simply, the faintest edge of irritation creeping into his tone.

She leaned forward slightly, her disbelief giving way to a sly grin. "An actual woman?"

Dominic's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance darkening his features. He turned to her, his tone clipped but civil. "I beg your pardon, Melissa, but what exactly do you mean by that?"

Behind her, the boutique attendants exchanged amused glances, their smiles barely concealed as they busied themselves with folding silk scarves and arranging accessories. Melissa, ever the provocateur, smirked as she waved her hand dismissively.

"Never mind, darling," she said with an airy laugh. "I'll get on with it."

Dominic gave her one last look before turning his attention back to the mannequin. To him, it wasn't just a hollow figure; it was a blank canvas, waiting to be adorned and transformed. His fingers brushed the edge of the mannequin's jaw, his mind already envisioning the fabric that would drape its form—elegant, flowing, and utterly unique.

The attendants whispered among themselves, stifling their laughter. They had worked for Melissa long enough to know Dominic's reputation. To him, men and women were little more than objects of artistic fascination—tools to create and refine his vision. He admired beauty with clinical detachment, viewing the human form as a vessel for art rather than a source of personal connection.

And yet, here he was, commissioning a one-of-a-kind dress for a woman. Not for a photoshoot, not for an exhibition, but for a date.

Melissa leaned against the counter, watching him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "I must say, Dominic, this is… unprecedented," she said, her tone playful but tinged with genuine intrigue.

He ignored her, his focus entirely on the mannequin. To him, the world outside its sculpted form had faded into irrelevance. But deep down, he knew the truth. This wasn't about the mannequin or the dress. This was about her—the woman who had captivated his thoughts, the woman whose bare back had haunted his dreams.

As he left the boutique, the attendants burst into muffled laughter, and Melissa shook her head with a bemused smile. Dominic's actions had always been enigmatic, but this? This was something else entirely.

For the first time in years, Dominic wasn't creating art for art's sake. He was creating something for someone—a gesture, a tribute, a piece of himself.