Arianna could tell from the way his eyes narrowed that he didn’t believe her for a second. His gaze lingered, slow and assessing, like he was trying to peel the truth off her face.
A prickle of defensiveness ran down her spine, and she lifted her chin, but deep down, she knew she probably looked like hell. The salt from last night's tears had left her skin feeling tight and blotchy, and the cursed dress was a wrinkled, twisted mess, the silk clinging to her like a battle-worn flag.
He didn’t call her out on the lie. Instead, he asked something that made her ears burn.
"What are you still doing in that dress? I don’t understand how you slept with that thing on."
Her exhale came sharp and irritated. "Well, as you can see, this dress was designed so someone"—she laced the word with as muc
