Rachel POV
The day of the gala finally arrived.
And at exactly 5 p.m., a small army of stern-faced women swept into my room, arms full of boxes, fabric bags, and accessories.
For the next hour, they worked with sharp efficiency, barely speaking except to adjust a curl or fasten a clasp.
By the time they stepped back, I barely recognized myself.
My hair—usually pulled into a simple ponytail or braided roughly—was swept into an elegant updo, soft curls framing my face. My makeup was dramatic but tasteful: smoky eyes, sharp contours, lips painted a bold red that matched the undertones of the deep red dress.
And the dress itself...
I stood before the full-length mirror as the final zipper slid into place, the fabric hugging every curve I'd spent years hiding under oversized sweaters.
