Zee’s.
At exactly eight in the evening, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of the black dress I’d once planned to wear for my birthday. Funny how I never wore it then—Denver’s stylist had talked me into something more elegant, more grown-up.
But tonight, this dress felt right. A little daring. A little defiant.
Still, my hands trembled slightly as I reached for my earrings.
I was nervous.
Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because I knew exactly what I had to say, and how much it might hurt.
The doorbell rang.
I knew, even before I opened the door, who it would be.
When I did, there stood Lawrence—polished perfection in an expensive black tuxedo that probably cost more than my father’s little apartment. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie, every stra
