The morning of the banquet arrived with a slate-blue sky and a hush that felt like a held breath. Sarah woke before her alarm, the quiet of her room crowded with thoughts that would not sit still. Her phone lay face down on the nightstand. She resisted the urge to reach for it, to look for messages she knew would not change anything, and instead turned to the wardrobe.
This time, she refused to dress like a girl trying to be what someone else wanted. She chose a long black gown with a clean, decisive line, the fabric matte rather than glittering, the neckline poised rather than provocative. It wasn't dramatic. It was final. As she fastened a slender crescent of onyx at her throat, the memory of the woman she had been—the one who once thought love meant constant concession—lifted and drift
