|CIRCE|
The heavy, embossed Dior box sat on my living room floor like a monument to everything I could not escape.
For a long time, I simply stood there staring at it, my arms wrapped around myself, still feeling the ghost of his hands on my skin, still tasting blood where his teeth had drawn it. Every instinct screamed at me to leave it untouched, to lock my door and pretend I had never gone to that penthouse.
But we both knew that was a lie.
With a sense of grim finality, I knelt and lifted the lid. The rustle of thick tissue paper was the only sound in the room. I peeled back the layers, and my breath caught in my throat.
The dress was a masterpiece of deep emerald green silk, cut to pour over a woman’s body like liquid jade. From the front, it offered deceptive modesty. A high nec
