Chapter 6

Vivian's POV

There were only three days left before Christian and Tiffany's engagement party.

Today, Christian's assistant dragged me to the most exclusive bridal boutique in Manhattan.

"Mr. Blackwood ordered that since Miss Sterling is trying on her wedding gown and the French designer only speaks French, you must be here to translate," the assistant delivered the order coldly.

I stood in the luxurious boutique, watching Christian and Tiffany sitting on a velvet sofa sipping tea. I nodded numbly.

Soon, the French designer wheeled out a dress covered in a delicate garment bag.

"Mr. Blackwood, this is 'The Nebula,' the gown you personally flew to Paris to commission six months ago for your bride. It is finally complete," the designer introduced passionately in French.

Hearing "six months ago" and "The Nebula," the blood drained from my face.

Six months ago, Christian had lied and said he was going to Paris for a business trip. When he came back, he had whispered secretly that he had prepared a massive surprise for our upcoming wedding ceremony.

So, this was it.

The bag was zipped open, revealing a gown covered in tens of thousands of tiny diamonds, the skirt sparkling like a starry night sky.

Tiffany's eyes lit up, and she gasped. "Oh my god, it's gorgeous! Christian, did you really customize this for me?"

Christian looked at the gown, his brows slightly furrowing. I knew he didn't have the memory of making this dress, but he simply assumed he must have ordered it for Tiffany five years ago.

"As long as you like it," he said softly.

With the help of the staff, Tiffany quickly put on the gown.

But when she walked out, she looked ridiculous. The waist was suffocatingly tight, the chest was completely loose, and the hem was way too long.

The designer frowned, speaking rapidly in French: "This is wrong. This gown was made strictly according to Miss Stone's measurements. This lady has an entirely different body frame. Of course it doesn't fit!"

The designer recognized me. Because six months ago, Christian had brought my photos and exact measurements, staying in their Paris workshop for three days and nights to perfect it.

I stood there, my fingernails biting into my palms, trying to stop myself from shaking.

Tiffany didn't understand French, but she could read the designer's expression. She turned to Christian, pouting, "Christian, why does it fit so poorly?"

Christian looked at me coldly. "What did he say? Translate."

I took a deep breath, looked straight into Christian's eyes, and translated in a flat voice: "The designer said this gown was custom-made to my exact measurements."

The air in the room instantly turned to ice.

Tiffany's face twisted in ugly jealousy.

Christian's expression darkened. He looked at the ill-fitting gown on Tiffany, then at my slender frame. A wave of irritation crossed his face.

"If the size is wrong, alter it," Christian said coldly.

The designer shook his head repeatedly. "Mr. Blackwood, the design of this dress is seamless. If we forcefully cut and alter it, we will destroy its soul. It is a complete waste of art."

"Translate," Christian commanded.

I translated the designer's words word-for-word.

Christian walked over to Tiffany, wrapping his arm around her waist. He looked down at the designer and me with sheer arrogance. "I paid for it. I can cut it however I want. Since it was made for Vivian, that means this dress is already dirty. Cut it. Alter it to Tiffany's size. If you won't do it, your shop will be closed by tomorrow."

My heart, at this very second, died completely.

I watched the designer reluctantly pick up the shears. I watched the sharp blades cut through the sparkling fabric of "The Nebula."

Every snip felt like it was cutting through my heart.

I watched the man who used to love me rip our memories to shreds and grind them into the dirt.