(Dorian's POV)
Dominique claps his hands. "Wonderful! Let's start with the basics."
For the next two hours, I watch Grace try on outfit after outfit.
Professional wear first—tailored suits in navy and charcoal, silk blouses, pencil skirts that show off legs she usually hides. She looks uncomfortable at first, tugging at hems and adjusting collars.
"Stop fidgeting," Dominique says gently. "You look perfect."
"I look like I'm playing dress-up," Grace mutters.
“Grace, go change. Something a little longer will do.” I say, glaring at Dominique. I don’t know what came over me, but I don’t like him looking at her bare legs, even if it’s only to appraise her appearance.
An old man, halfway to his grave. What business does he have looking at my wife’s legs? I begin to wonder if it was a bad
