"Christ, Emma, it's August! You'll get heatstroke wearing something like that," Cynthia exclaimed gesturing toward the turtleneck had I had been considering.

"You don't need to overcompensate for the pictures," she added a touch more softly as I tucked the garment back onto the rack.

"Can't be too careful with your family... Charlie somehow managed to be swinging my bra around the first time we were introduced," I admitted sheepishly.

Cynthia smirked as she elegant draped her arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry. You're not his type."

I was about to ask if I were her type in retort when the shopkeeper suddenly appeared offering to pull options for us. I agreed eagerly, and the posh-looking woman nodded politely before ushering back into a private fitting room.

"Refreshments?" she offered as Cynthia made herself comfortable in one of the plush chairs.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."

"None for me, thanks," I mumbled as I slipped behind the blue-satin changing curtain. The sight of half a dozen cocktail dresses hanging from garment rack filled me with a mixture of apprehension and relief.

"I still don't see why you're so nervous!" Cynthia called as I slipped off my shoes and then my trousers.

I unbuttoned my blouse and cursed myself for not wearing a strapless bra. "I'm meeting Tom's parents—your parents. It's a big step!"

"You've already moved in together and practically announced your engagement," she rebutted.

"I did nothing of the sort!" I exclaimed as I walked out in the first dress. I stepped onto the elevated pedestal and frowned at my reflection. "Perhaps I should avoid wearing white..."

Cynthia barked in laughter as she leaned forward to pour herself a cup of tea from a neatly prepared silver tray ladened with an ornate porcelain teapot and several plates of biscuits. "Please, the color of your dress will hardly save you from questions of marriage, Emma. Besides, it was your idea to wear the ring publically in the first place."

I ignored her and considered the dress. It was three-quarter sleeves with a high neckline, which I liked, but the pearl white color practically gleamed wherever light hit it.

"But what if I should spill something on it?"

Cynthia cocked an eyebrow in amusement.

"I'll try on the next one," I muttered as I retreated again to the changing room.

"I know our family may seem... intimidating," she started.

I snorted as I hung the dress back up and reached for the next one. "Just a bit."

"But at family dinners, we're just that—family. No titles, no protocols... surely you must have experience meeting previous boyfriends' parents!"

"Uh, no actually. I haven't," I admitted somewhat awkwardly as I did a quick spin in the next dress before stepping out again.

Cynthia's eyebrows shot up, though at my comment or the dress I wasn't sure. It was soft pink with a fluffy tulle skirt that flowed to my mid-knee.

"How long were you single before you met my delightful little brother?"

"Awhile," I answered as I ran my hands over the tulle attempting to calm it somewhat but only managing to fluff it further. "I wasn't really interested in relationships."

Cynthia tilted her head in consideration. "But you have had one... haven't you?"

"Course." She said nothing in response, and after a moment I realized she was waiting for me to say more. "Well, one really. In university."

"How long were you together?"

I shrugged and attempted to focus my attention on the dress. "A few years."

"And you never met each others' parents?" she asked somewhat dubiously.

I cleared my throat. "My father had died the year before we started going out, so... no."

Cynthia's posture jerked into perfect alignment. "I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea."

"It's fine. Really." Despite the tightening lump in my throat, I felt the need to reassure her. "Mum wasn't really in a state to be introduced to anyone for a while after, and then... it just never came up."

She nodded in understanding. "But it was serious, this relationship?"

I forced myself to stretch my lips into a playful smile. "I was young and stupid—he was my whole world." I spun to face her then and gestured to the dress. "What do you think of this one?"

Her eyes roamed up and down my figure, categorically unimpressed. "You look like a doll."

"Is that a good thing or—"

"What do you think?" She asked dryly.

"Right."

I popped back into the dressing room. Once I extricated myself from the layers of frills, I hesitated before slipping on the third dress.

It was a beautiful green satin that seemed to ripple with elegance. It was a wrap dress—similar to the one I had worn on Tom's & my first date—that gathered in a cinch at the waist.

"So this relationship, it was different from the one you have with Tom?"

I bit my lip as I twisted my arm somewhat painfully in an attempt to do up a hidden zipper on the side of the dress. "Night and day."

"How so?"

"I can't seem to get the zipper..."

I heard the soft clatter of the teacup and saucer and then a gentle rustling of the curtain.

"Knock, knock."

I reached back and pulled the material aside before facing the mirror once more.

"Sorry. It's just here..." I said as I lifted my left arm.

Cynthia leaned down and tugged the fabric taught as she worked the zipper. "How was it different?"

I tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of our reflection: me in an elegant dress with my arm flung wildly over my head and Cynthia now leaning in so close to the zipper her face was practically in my armpit. Thank god I had been generous with the deodorant this morning.

"Well, Tom doesn't demand all of my time and attention... He doesn't demand anything actually."

"This other bloke did?"

"Yeah, he... he wasn't as good with independence."

I felt the fabric around my ribs tighten as the zipper slowly dragged upwards. "His or yours?"

"I was just..." The edges of my vision suddenly seemed to vibrate then blur. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply as I reminded myself where I was and more importantly whom I was with. "Being dramatic."

When I could feel my racing heart begin to return to its steady pace, I opened my eyes to see Cynthia staring back at me through the mirror, her expression set in a stern frown.

"No... you weren't," she said in a near whisper.

I shook my head, practically frantic as my heart began to race again. How on earth did I let the conversation get here? We were supposed to be dress shopping, that's all. And talking about Tom's family, not—

"But I was being unfair," I tried to convince her. "He was just... he just needed me around more, that's all."

"And did you like that?"

I shrugged helplessly, my left arm beginning to prick from lack of blood flow. Cynthia's attention seemed to have abandoned the zipper and was now completely fixed on my reflection in the mirror. I carefully lowered my arm to my chest and held my wrist tightly in my other hand.

"It's nice to feel needed."

She laughed at my attempted diplomacy. "That's not an answer to my question."

I forced another smile on my lips.

"Is this practice for your mother interrogating me?" I attempted to tease. "Because if so, I-I don't think I'm up to the task—and I doubt anyone outside of MI6 would be either."

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. "It all sounds quite suffocating to me."

"It was fine—really! I didn't really mind so much in the beginning. It was just..."

Dammit to hell. You should've been recruited to MI6, I thought.

Her expression softened as if she'd heard me, and I was immediately awash with guilt.

"Just?" She prodded gently.

I stared up at the ceiling, no longer able to meet her gaze straight on.

"He was just rather opinionated about... everything," I sighed. "My work, my friends, even my bloody shampoo."

"And I bet he shared those opinions quite forcefully, didn't he?"

My eyes flicked down to meet her at the sound of her outrage. "He-he was just high maintenance."

"No," she countered steadily. "I'm high maintenance. He was abusive."

I shook my head adamantly. "No—you've got it wrong. He never hit me."

"He didn't have to! He treated you like shite, and from the sound of it he did it on purpose."

"No we loved each other, he just—well, he just..." My mouth went dry as I struggled to think of the words to explain it to her proper, to make her understand.

Patrick had never hit me. We may have had our rows, and admittedly he may have done the bulk of the shouting, but he wasn't... well, I certainly wasn't a victim of...

"He just wanted to control you," she nodded. "Let me guess, he always had to know exactly where you were and who you were with?"

I blinked several times, my whirring brain trying to catch up.

"I'd just moved to London," I finally managed. "H-he was just protective. He had my best intentions at heart."

Cynthia stood slowly and turned to regard me. "Then why'd you break up?"

"Because—" My eyes widened in horror as the words I knew to be true lodged painfully in my throat.

Because I knew my father would have hated him.

Understanding registered in Cynthia's expression. She nodded curtly, as if to conclude the disastrous conversation, and gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. "Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you did. It doesn't sound like he treated you like you deserve."

I cleared my throat and was relieved to find my voice had returned to me. "Tom treats me better than I deserve."

"You're lucky to have him," she agreed.

I bobbed my head. I could feel her eyes searching my face, but I was afraid if I met them my own would betray the calm veneer I was determined to project.

"And he's lucky to have you," Cynthia added.

"H-he knows." I attempted a broad smile, but not up to the task I settled for a demure grin.

"Good." Cynthia pushed out a short exhale of breath and looked me over once more before smiling. "This is the one. Wear it with nude pantyhose and pumps, obviously."

I nodded numbly.

Obviously.