By the time the clock struck eleven-thirty, Ava was already dressed.
She had chosen a fitted black dress that traced every line of her figure without revealing too much. The fabric clung in a way that suggested rather than exposed, its subtle sheen catching the light when she moved. Her heels were sleek, black, and needle-thin, the kind that announced a presence without the wearer needing to speak. Her hair was drawn into a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, revealing her jawline and lending her an air of regal composure. Her lips were painted in a deep shade of crimson, bold but measured, like a calculated warning.
Every detail of her looks that day was carefully chosen. There would be no softness today. She needed to project control, to become unreadable.
She stepped faintly into the
