IRIS
The silver dress hangs on the back of the closet door like it knows it’s the star of the night, but it’s not mine.
It’s Daisy’s.
She’s been obsessing over it for a week, gushing about how it would shimmer under the chandeliers, how it was made for moments like tonight. Honestly, the way she’s been guarding it, you’d think it came straight off a royal runway. She’s barely even let me breathe near it.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a dress that’s a little quieter, but no less stunning.
It’s a deep emerald green, the kind that looks almost black in dim lighting, but rich and vibrant under warmth. The neckline dips into a tasteful sweetheart curve, and the back swoops low, exposing just enough skin to make me a little self-conscious. The satin fabric hugs my waist and flows down in
