-POV Derby
My bedroom floor looked like a textile disaster.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, staring at the three dresses laid out in front of me. In the quiet, cramped reality of my apartment, they looked exactly like what they were: off-the-rack purchases from a mid-tier department store, paid for in installments, meant for regular office holiday parties, not high-society galas.
None of them were elite. None of them were haute couture. They certainly weren't designed to stand anywhere near a shipping heiress wrapped in emerald silk and old-money diamonds.
"You're overthinking this," I muttered to myself, rubbing my temples as the dull hum of my refrigerator filled the silence. "You're going as support staff. You're an administrative asset. You sit at the back, eat the catering, and
