That morning came with chaos.
Not the rebel-fighting, lightning-blasting kind—no, no. This chaos involved lace, lipstick, high-pitched gasps, and enough perfume in the air to seduce an entire kingdom.
My maids—Norma and Anita—were already high on nerves and sugar, running up and down the stairs like caffeinated fairies. The moment the royal fashionista entered, dragging behind her three assistants and a mountain of red satin, I knew this wasn’t just a gown. This was a declaration of war on all other women attending the Winter Solstice Ball.
It was scandalous. Sinful. A dress woven from temptation and pure confidence.
Blood-red silk. Backless. Slit up the side way too high to be diplomatic. The neckline? Deep enough to start political debates. The sleeves hung off my shoulders like fall
