Minutes passed like a slow-moving storm, tense and thick with anticipation. Marceline emerged from the fitting room in silence, the delicate rustle of her gown echoing like whispered secrets across the luxurious boutique floor.
The gown was breathtaking—an opulent ball gown of snow-white satin, embroidered with shimmering silver stones that caught the ambient lighting overhead and scattered it like fragments of stars. The fabric hugged her waist before cascading down in ethereal waves, delicate and regal, a queen reborn.
Marceline didn’t walk. She floated.
She stepped forward, chin high, refusing to let the fluttering in her chest show. Her heart pounded beneath the delicate lace bodice, not out of excitement, but because she knew he was watching.
Cross Dejeva.
She raised her gaze and
