Isabella's POV
When Damien said he’d send someone with an outfit, I pictured something classy. Understated. A simple cute dress. But the garment I pulled from the box was anything but.
The fabric was black like ink—luxurious and impossibly soft, yet structured to perfection. It clung to my curves like it had been sewn onto my skin, wrapping around my waist and hugging the swell of my hips. The neckline plunged dangerously low, a sharp V that barely kept my breasts in place. The slit up the thigh whispered scandal. Every step promised a glimpse of sin.
I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.
Ellie had come to fix my hair and makeup. She swept my hair into soft waves that framed my face and painted my lips blood red. It was a look that screamed dangerous woman—and maybe I was
