Clara
The transformation was absolute, terrifyingly professional. For three days, Clara had been styled, fitted, and prepped like a priceless doll being prepared for its display case. Tonight, she wore a custom-designed gown—a sheath of midnight blue velvet that moved like liquid shadow, its cut severe and elegant, contrasting dangerously with the massive, blinding ring on her finger.
She stood before the full-length mirror, seeing not Clara Hayes, the quiet history teacher, but a carefully constructed facsimile: Mrs. Volkov. Her face was a masterwork of professional restraint—cool eyes, a slight, serene smile plastered to her lips. She was a beautiful, hollow shell.
Alessio entered the dressing suite, and the air immediately thickened, pressing down on her lungs. He was magnificent, a
