Chapter 13: The Aftermath
The glow from Whitney’s phone screen cast shifting patterns on the dorm room ceiling. She was tucked against Joe’s chest, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring thump beneath her ear. One of his arms was draped loosely around her shoulders, his fingers absently tracing slow, warm circles on her bare arm. The other held his own phone, scrolling through game footage with quiet focus. Her dorm felt smaller, warmer, with him filling the space – textbooks piled haphazardly on the desk beside Bengals memorabilia, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering aroma of energy drinks.
She was scrolling through emails – grant application confirmations, university reminders about graduation paperwork – when a new notification popped up. Liv Moiarchi: Wire Transfer Notification - Agent Retainer Fee: $5,000.00. Monthly billing cycle begins March 1st. Details attached.
Whitney froze. Five thousand dollars? Monthly? Her student budget recoiled. She’d agreed Liv was expensive, but seeing the stark reality illuminated on the screen of her iPhone 13 was a gut punch. "Joe," she breathed, her voice tight.
"Hmm?" He didn’t look up, still engrossed in a replay.
"Liv." Whitney tilted her phone towards him. "She just billed me. Five grand. Already." Panic edged her words. "She said she’d been my agent ‘for a while’… does that mean she’s backdating this? How long is ‘a while’? Since the literacy van launch? Since… since you walked into training with my lipstick on your collar?" The memory of that morning, the teammates' knowing glances, Ted Karras’s whistle, sent fresh heat to her cheeks.
Joe finally lowered his phone, peering at hers. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her side. He shifted, pulling her closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Told you she was efficient," he murmured, his breath warm on her skin. "Ruthless, but efficient. Consider it an investment in not becoming a meme." He kissed her temple, a soft, lingering press. "And yeah, knowing Liv? ‘A while’ probably started the second she stopped yelling at me in her office." He grinned, the playful light back in his eyes. "Guess we're officially a power couple now, Literacy Angel. Complete with a terrifyingly expensive handler."
Before Whitney could fully process the financial hemorrhage or the warm thrill of ‘power couple’, another notification chimed – another text from Liv. Article Link: Burrow’s Angel: How a Utah Grad Student Became the Bengals QB’s Touchdown Off the Field.
Whitney’s thumb hovered over the link. The headline alone – ‘Burrow’s Angel’ – felt simultaneously too grandiose and weirdly intimate. Public confirmation. She tapped it.
The article loaded quickly. There was a stunning action shot of Joe mid-throw, determination etched on his face. Beside it, a smaller, candid photo of Whitney laughing during the literacy van ribbon-cutting ceremony, sunlight catching the highlights in her dark hair. The text flowed, weaving together her background – the small Utah town, her MS diagnosis, her passion for education – with Joe’s comeback season. It mentioned the viral ‘Literacy Angel’ nickname, the positive press around the van, and Liv’s masterful orchestration of it all. It hinted, respectfully but unmistakably, at the romance, quoting Joe’s interview with Kyle Brandt verbatim: "She’s incredible... Watching her fight... it puts things in perspective... She’s special. Really special." The tone was surprisingly warm, framing her not as a distraction, but as a grounding force, a positive influence aligning perfectly with Joe’s renewed focus.
Whitney read it silently, her breath shallow. Seeing their private world dissected and packaged for public consumption was surreal. The ‘Angel’ moniker felt heavy. Yet… the photo captured her genuine joy. Joe’s quoted words echoed exactly what he’d whispered to her countless times in the quiet dark. It wasn’t salacious. It wasn’t cruel.
She felt Joe’s gaze on her, watching her reaction. She tilted the phone so he could see the headline and the photo spread. He scanned it quickly, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, another soft chuckle escaped him, deeper this time, tinged with satisfaction. He pressed another kiss to her temple, his lips lingering. "See?" His voice was a low murmur against her skin, warm and solid. "Told you they’d see it. Told you they’d see you." His arm tightened around her. "Worth the five grand?"
A shaky laugh bubbled up in Whitney’s throat, the panic momentarily eclipsed by the profound warmth spreading through her chest, amplified by the feel of him against her. "Maybe," she conceded, leaning back into him, savoring the solidity. "The picture’s good. They didn’t call me ‘plus-sized inspiration’ or ‘MS sufferer’." She wrinkled her nose. "Small victories."
"Big victory," Joe corrected softly, his fingers resuming their gentle tracing on her arm. "They got it right. You. The work." He nodded towards the phone. "That’s the narrative now. Liv’s earning her keep."
As if summoned by the mention of her fee-earning prowess, Liv’s next text arrived, sharp and to the point: Fittings confirmed. Margaux Dubois Atelier. Tomorrow. 10 AM sharp. Bring reference images. Do NOT be late. Address attached.
The cozy intimacy of the dorm room suddenly felt fragile, pierced by the reality of ‘Margaux Dubois Atelier’. Whitney stared at the name. It sounded expensive. French. Terrifying. "Margaux Dubois?" she whispered, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. "Joe… that sounds…"
"Like the woman who dresses Oscar winners and Beyoncé on Tuesdays?" Joe finished, a hint of amusement in his voice. He shifted, sitting up slightly, pulling her with him so they were facing each other on the narrow dorm bed. "Liv doesn’t mess around. Dubois is discreet, brilliant, and yes, eye-wateringly expensive. But," he caught Whitney’s worried gaze, his own steady and reassuring, "she’s also known for understanding… structure. Support. Liv mentioned your concerns." He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "This is step one. Surviving the red carpet. Looking like you own it. Because you will."
The thought of standing in front of someone who dressed Beyoncé, being measured and assessed, sent fresh tremors through Whitney. "Reference images? What does that even mean? Pictures of… dresses I like? How am I supposed to know what I like for something like this?"
"Pinterest," Joe said simply, reaching for his own phone. "Seriously. Search ‘NFL Honors red carpet’, ‘plus size formal gowns’, ‘elegant formal’. Save what catches your eye. Colors you love. Silhouettes that look comfortable." He opened his browser, typing quickly. "Look, like this." He showed her his screen – a stunning image of a woman with curves similar to Whitney’s in a deep emerald gown with strong, architectural shoulders and a flowing skirt. "See? Elegant. Powerful. Looks like she could walk miles in it, or maybe just stand there and command the room." He grinned. "Which is basically the same thing tomorrow."
Whitney took his phone, scrolling through the images he’d pulled up. Sapphire blues, rich burgundies, a daring crimson. Gowns with intricate beading, others with clean, sculptural lines. Some had subtle trains, others stopped at the floor. Seeing possibilities, seeing bodies like hers looking undeniably regal, chipped away at the fear. "Okay," she breathed, handing his phone back. "Okay, Pinterest deep dive. Tonight." She managed a small, determined smile. "No trains. Definitely no trains."
Joe laughed, pulling her close again, his chin resting on the top of her head. "Attagirl. Deep breaths. Dubois is intimidating, but she’s a genius. And Liv will be there, probably glaring daggers at anyone who breathes wrong." He kissed her hair. "You’ve faced skeptical school boards, Whit. You stared down Liv Morgan in her own glass-walled war room. You can handle a French designer with pins."
His confidence was contagious. Whitney nestled against him, pulling her own phone back up, opening Pinterest. The daunting headline ‘Burrow’s Angel’ still glowed faintly on her screen beneath the new search bar. The monthly $5,000 fee notification lurked in her banking app. But here, in the quiet sanctuary of her dorm room, wrapped in the solid warmth of Joe Burrow – her boyfriend, the franchise quarterback, the man who’d declared her ‘special’ to the world – the terrifying glare of the approaching spotlight felt momentarily manageable. She typed ‘NFL Honors Gown Plus Size’ into the search bar, took a deep breath filled with the scent of him and faint coffee, and started scrolling. Tomorrow, Margaux Dubois. Tonight, inspiration. The battlefield awaited its armor.
The battlefield awaited its armor. Whitney spent hours scrolling Pinterest, saving images of deep jewel-toned gowns with structured bodices and flowing skirts, avoiding anything resembling a wedding cake. Sleep came fitfully, tangled in dreams of tripping on red carpets under blinding lights. Morning sunlight sliced through her dorm room blinds, harsh and revealing. She grabbed her phone, blinking away grit, and reflexively opened her banking app – a nervous habit since Liv’s five-thousand-dollar invoice landed yesterday.
Her breath hitched. A fizzy sip of Dr. Pepper went down the wrong pipe. She coughed violently, eyes watering, staring at the screen. The numbers blurred, then snapped into terrifying clarity. A deposit. Six figures. Hundreds of thousands. Her student account, accustomed to double-digit balances after textbooks, now displayed a sum that felt fictional. A text notification buzzed beneath the app banner. Liv: ‘Already took my commission for the year out. And how much the gown will cost. That’s what’s left. Sorry it’s not much, it’ll get bigger as we get you brand deals and interviews. I’ll be by to pick you up in 2 hours. Clean skin and wearing what underwear you’ll wear under the dress. Joe told me about your garments, pick the most comfortable ones. Hope you have references.’
Whitney stared. The zeros seemed to pulse. Not much? This was more money than her parents had probably ever seen at once. Her hands trembled, making the phone screen wobble. She needed Joe. Now. She stabbed his contact, pressing the phone to her ear like a lifeline. It rang once, twice.
"Hey, Angel," Joe answered, his voice warm and sleep-rough. "Ready for battle with Madame Dubois?"
"Joe," Whitney choked out, the word tight and high. "I… my bank account. Liv. She…" She couldn’t form the sentence. "Hundreds of thousands. Joe. Hundreds. Of. Thousands." She heard a soft thump, maybe him sitting up abruptly. "She texted saying she took her fee and the gown cost already, and this is what’s left! She said ‘sorry it’s not much’! Joe, I’m… I’m rich?" The disbelief made it a question.
A low whistle came down the line. "Damn, Liv works fast. Knew she’d leverage the Brandt interview buzz." His tone shifted, pragmatic. "That’s… standard, Whit. Seriously. For the visibility you’re about to get? That’s just the opener. Endorsements, features… it compounds." He paused, hearing her ragged breathing. "Hey. Breathe. It’s real. It’s yours. You earned it."
"Earned it?" Whitney squeaked, pacing her tiny dorm floor. "By dating you? By having MS and wanting to teach kids?"
"By being Whitney Roberts," Joe stated firmly. "By building that literacy program from nothing. By handling the press like a pro. By being the person sponsors want to associate with. Liv saw the value. She’s investing it for you." He chuckled softly. "Feels surreal, huh?"
"Surreal doesn’t cover it," Whitney whispered, sinking onto her bed, staring at the impossible number. A wild, giddy laugh bubbled up. "I’m rich, Joe! Like… actually rich!" Then, quieter, almost to herself, the dream surfacing through the shock: "Maybe… maybe I could actually write those books? The ones for the kids? Properly? Hire an illustrator…" The thought, suddenly tangible, stole her breath again.
Joe’s voice softened, filled with quiet pride. "That’s the first thing you think of? Funding your books?" He didn’t wait for an answer. "Yes. Absolutely. That’s exactly what this is for. Liv will help you structure it – trusts, investments, all that boring crap – but the point is, Whit, your dreams just got a jet engine." He paused. "Now, go put on those comfortable garments. Liv’s a drill sergeant about punctuality. Deep breaths. You’ve got this. And hey," he added, a smile in his voice, "try not to faint when you see Dubois’s studio. It’s… intense."
The call ended, leaving Whitney in buzzing silence. The enormity pressed in – the money, the gala, the designer, the world watching. She looked at her Pinterest board still open on her laptop, then back at her bank app. The numbers felt less alien now, charged with potential. Her potential. She carefully selected her softest, most supportive undergarments, the ones that wouldn’t dig or chafe during hours of standing. Clean skin. References. She pulled up her saved gown images, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Books, she thought fiercely, clutching her phone. I can write the books.
Exactly two hours later, a sleek black town car purred to a stop outside her dorm, its engine a low, expensive hum that vibrated up through the sidewalk. Whitney stood waiting, clutching her tote bag containing her references, phone, and a granola bar she couldn’t imagine eating. The passenger window slid down silently. Liv peered out, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes, her expression unreadable. "Get in, Roberts," she commanded, her voice cutting through the morning air. "Dubois hates tardiness more than I hate bad publicity." She glanced pointedly at Whitney’s bag. "References?"
"Right here," Whitney managed, holding up her phone.
"Good." Liv gestured to the door. "Let's go make you unforgettable. Preferably for the right reasons." The door unlocked with a soft click.
Whitney took one last look at her ordinary dorm building, the familiar cracked sidewalk. She squared her shoulders, the weight of the money in her account and the dream of books a strange, solid anchor in her chest. "Okay," she breathed, pulling open the heavy car door. The scent of leather and Liv’s sharp perfume enveloped her as she slid into the cool, dim interior. "Okay, let's go." The door thudded shut, sealing her inside. The town car pulled away from the curb, smooth and relentless, carrying Whitney Roberts towards the glittering, terrifying forge where her armor for the spotlight would be shaped. Liv tapped something on her tablet, the screen casting a pale glow. "Margaux," Liv said into her headset, her voice crisp, "we're en route. ETA fifteen minutes. Roberts has references. Prepare the sapphire silk faille and the emerald velvet. And the coffee. Strong." She glanced sideways at Whitney, who was gripping the edge of the leather seat. "Breathe, Roberts. It's just fabric and very expensive thread." Whitney nodded mutely, watching the city blur past the tinted window. Just fabric, she repeated silently, and the entire world watching. Her stomach clenched. "Oh god," she mumbled, grabbing her bag tighter as the car accelerated onto the freeway, heading towards the unknown.
The sleek town car sliced through Cincinnati traffic, the thrum of the engine vibrating through Whitney’s clenched hands gripping her tote bag. Liv tapped relentlessly on her tablet, the sharp clicks punctuating the tense silence. Whitney stared out the tinted window, the unfamiliar luxury streets blurring past, her stomach churning. Hundreds of thousands. Books. Beyoncé’s designer. Don’t faint. The mantra did little to calm the frantic flutter beneath her ribs. Liv’s perfume, expensive and icy, filled the cool air, a stark contrast to the nervous sweat prickling Whitney’s palms. "Dubois appreciates decisiveness," Liv stated abruptly, not looking up. "Don't waffle. Show her your references clearly. State your non-negotiables – comfort, support, no trains. Then let her work. She’s an artist, not a seamstress."
"Right," Whitney breathed, her voice thin. "Decisive. Comfort. No trains." She pulled out her phone, thumbing open her Pinterest board filled with jewel-toned gowns – deep blues, rich emeralds, a daring crimson. Each image felt like a costume for a role she hadn’t auditioned for. The car glided to a smooth stop before an unassuming brick building downtown, its only identifier a discreet brass plaque: M. Dubois Atelier. Liv was out before the driver could open her door, a whirlwind of sharp tailoring. "Move, Roberts," she commanded, already striding towards the heavy oak entrance. Whitney scrambled after her, the sudden transition from cool car to brisk February air jolting her senses.
Inside, the air changed instantly – warm, hushed, smelling faintly of expensive wool, starch, and something floral yet clean. Polished hardwood floors gleamed under soft track lighting. Racks of exquisite fabrics lined one wall – silks that shimmered like oil on water, velvets deep enough to drown in, intricate laces whispering secrets. A young assistant with a sleek black ponytail greeted them silently, gesturing towards a spacious, sunlit workroom dominated by a central platform surrounded by full-length mirrors. And there, standing amidst bolts of sapphire silk and rolls of ivory lace, was Margaux Dubois.
She wasn't what Whitney expected. No towering ice queen. Margaux was petite, maybe late fifties, with a wild mane of silver-streaked dark hair escaping a messy bun, sharp black eyes missing nothing behind stylish glasses, and wearing a paint-splattered smock over black trousers. Her gaze swept over Whitney with an intensity that felt less like judgment and more like… assessment. Calculation. Pure, focused interest. "Ah, Liv," Margaux said, her voice surprisingly warm, accented but precise. She clasped Liv’s offered hand briefly, then turned that laser focus fully on Whitney. "And you must be the Literacy Angel." A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "The one causing such a stir. Come. Stand here." She gestured to the platform.
Whitney felt like a specimen under glass. She climbed onto the platform, the wood cool beneath her stockinged feet. Margaux circled her slowly, silently, her sharp eyes tracing Whitney’s curves, her posture, the line of her shoulders. Whitney resisted the urge to fidget, to shrink. She remembered Joe’s words: You can handle a French designer with pins. She forced her shoulders back, chin slightly up, channeling the determination she used facing skeptical school boards. Margaux stopped directly in front of her. "Hmm," she murmured, a thoughtful sound. She reached out, not touching Whitney, but tracing an invisible line from shoulder to hip in the air. "Strong shoulders. Beautiful proportions. A true hourglass." Her gaze lifted, meeting Whitney’s. "You are… magnifique. A perfect canvas."
Relief, sharp and sweet, washed over Whitney. Magnifique. Not ‘plus-sized challenge’. A canvas. Margaux’s eyes sparkled now, the artist fully engaged. She gestured towards Whitney’s phone clutched in her hand. "Show me. What speaks to you?" Whitney fumbled, pulling up her Pinterest board. Margaux peered at the images – the emerald velvet, the sapphire silk with architectural shoulders, the clean-lined crimson. She nodded thoughtfully, humming softly. "Good instincts. Rich colors suit your warmth. Structure… yes." She looked back at Whitney, a playful glint entering her eyes. "Now, the important question, chérie. Do I have… full creative freedom?"
The question hung in the air. Whitney’s breath caught. Full creative freedom? From the woman who dressed icons? Her gaze instinctively flicked to Liv, standing like a sentinel near the door. Liv met her eyes. No frown. No warning glare. Just a single, deliberate, almost imperceptible nod. Trust her. Liv’s nod said. Trust the terrifyingly expensive genius. Whitney looked back at Margaux, seeing the artist’s eager anticipation. She took a deep breath, the scent of potential and expensive fabric filling her lungs. A small, genuine smile spread across her face. "Yes," Whitney said, her voice clear and steady. "I trust you fully."
Margaux’s face lit up like a child unleashed in a candy store. "Parfait!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together once. "Then we play!" She turned to her assistant, firing off rapid French instructions. The assistant darted away, returning moments later with armfuls of fabric – not the sapphire silk or emerald velvet Whitney had pinned, but a heavy, liquid-looking satin in a shade of midnight blue so deep it was almost black, shimmering with subtle indigo undertones. Margaux snatched a bolt of intricate, gunmetal-grey lace, delicate yet strong. "Stand tall, ma belle!" Margaux commanded, already approaching Whitney with a bolt of the midnight satin draped over her arm and pins clenched between her lips.
What followed felt less like a fitting and more like a whirlwind dance. Margaux moved with astonishing speed and precision, her hands swift and sure. She wrapped the cool, heavy satin around Whitney’s torso, pinning it snugly but comfortably, creating a deep V-neckline that hinted at cleavage without revealing it, the fabric cascading smoothly over Whitney’s curves. Then came the lace – draped strategically over one shoulder and arm, cascading diagonally across the bodice Margaux was sculpting with pins and folds, adding texture and a touch of daring asymmetry. Margaux knelt, gathering the satin at Whitney’s waist, pinning it into soft pleats that flowed out into a graceful, floor-length skirt that moved like water when Whitney shifted slightly. "Look," Margaux commanded softly, stepping back, her eyes wide and bright.
Whitney turned towards the bank of mirrors. Her breath vanished. The woman staring back wasn't the nervous college student from the dorm. The midnight satin hugged her curves like a second skin, the deep V elegant and powerful, not vulgar. The gunmetal lace added an edge, a modern twist, drawing the eye diagonally across her body. The skirt flowed with regal grace, hinting at movement, at strength. It was modest, covering her shoulders and back fully except for the draped lace arm, yet undeniably daring in its bold simplicity and the way it celebrated her shape. It looked… effortless. And stunning. Absolutely stunning. Whitney touched the cool lace at her shoulder, her reflection’s eyes wide with disbelief.
Silence filled the workroom. Liv, who had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, slowly straightened up. Her usual impassive mask slipped, replaced by pure, unguarded astonishment. Her sharp eyes scanned Whitney from head to toe, lingering on the drape of the skirt, the cut of the bodice. A slow, rare, and utterly genuine smile spread across Liv’s face – not the practiced PR one, but one of pure, aesthetic appreciation. Margaux just stared, her hands clasped together under her chin, a look of profound satisfaction on her face. "Mon Dieu," Margaux whispered, breaking the silence. Her voice was thick with emotion. "It is… parfait. Exactly as I saw it in my head. You…" She gestured emphatically at Whitney. "You are a dream. A revelation! I haven't had this much fun designing in years!"
She stepped closer, her eyes alight with new inspiration. "This is just the beginning, chérie," Margaux declared, her voice fervent. "The gala dress will be finished in two weeks – perfection takes time! Then," she gestured excitedly, "the day of the gala, you come to Joe’s home. We do full glam. Hair, makeup, jewelry – everything. A complete vision." She beamed at Whitney, then at Liv. "This woman," she said, pointing at Whitney, "she needs more clothes. Many more. She carries them… magnifiquement." Liv simply nodded, her earlier astonishment settling into a look of shrewd calculation mixed with undeniable approval. Whitney stood frozen on the platform, bathed in the soft light, draped in midnight and lace, the impossible gown taking shape around her. The terrifying glare of the spotlight suddenly felt less like an interrogation lamp and more like… illumination. Margaux clapped her hands again, the sound sharp and joyful in the quiet room. "Now, chérie, stand very still. We refine the drape." The pins gleamed in Margaux’s hand, ready to sculpt the dream into reality. The battlefield had its armor, and it was breathtaking.