The dress hangs there, mocking me—a cascade of fabric so fine it could be woven from the night sky itself, embellished with beads that catch the light with an almost cruel sparkle. Darius's expectations drape every thread, each sequin a shackle.
I pull it off the hanger with a sneer. Stupid, fancy dress. It's like a costume, a disguise meant to transform me into someone I'm not—will never be.
But I slide into it anyway, the fabric cold against my skin, a whisper of luxury that's supposed to make me forget who I am. I won't. I can't.
The fit is almost perfect, of course. Darius would accept nothing less. But it's obvious he remembers me the way I was—skinny and malnourished.
I twirl, not out of vanity but strategy, watching the skirt flare and settle. A good dress for hiding things. Lik
