I stared at my reflection like it might apologize.
It didn’t.
The mirror showed a woman I barely recognized—certainly not one dressed by her own free will. The fabric clung where it shouldn’t, dipped far too low, and left entirely too much skin exposed for my comfort.
I inhaled carefully.
Nothing catastrophic happened, but I wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t if I sneezed.
“If I breathe wrong,” I muttered to myself, tugging uselessly at the neckline,
“My breasts are going to declare independence.”
This dress made the one I’d worn at the war camp—the night of the dance—look conservative. That one had been bad. This one felt like a personal attack. Behind me, Lyra leaned casually against the door frame, entirely unbothered.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
“That’s not reassuring,” I answered.
