Chloe’s POV
Saturday afternoon was a sensory sanctuary of soft tulle, shimmering sequins, and absolute, glorious chaos.
Maya and I had commandeered the VIP fitting room at one of the upscale boutiques downtown. Racks of dresses—midnight blue, champagne gold, emerald silk—lined the walls, and the air smelled faintly of expensive hairspray and teenage excitement. Maya had already tried on four different gowns, spinning in front of the three-way mirror with dramatic sighs while I critiqued the silhouettes with the seriousness of a seasoned fashion editor.
"Okay, but this one," Maya declared, emerging from the dressing room in a sweeping, midnight-blue halter dress that caught the light like starlight. "If this doesn't make the student council president regret everything, nothing will."
