Aria’s interest in me was clear.
Too clear.
And it scared me.
The way she acted—her calculated words, the way her gaze searched for something—reminded me of a person so deeply misunderstood that all that remained was anger.
Not directed at one thing.
Not even aimed at me.
But a generalized rage that came from being broken too many times.
She was beautiful, and I could see why people would want to hurt her.
Because many people had wanted to hurt me—just for looking the way I do.
But unlike me, Aria was… different.
She had curves.
She had muscle.
She was big-chested, full-figured, strong.
She was the kind of woman men stared at—and probably the kind some women admired, too.
I wasn’t like that.
I was flat-chested, my body thin to the point of being frail. There was very little
