Too tight.
Too traditional.
Too pure.
She hated them all.
And oh, I knew why.
Because every time she looked in the mirror, she wasn’t just seeing lace and illusion.
She was seeing a bride.
Which meant this was real.
Which meant I’d won.
Good.
Let her squirm.
Let her spit venom behind silk curtains and mutter curses like prayer beads between her teeth. It was better than tears. It was honest.
The boutique manager? Poor woman was a wreck. She kept glancing at me like I might burst into flames or set someone else on fire.
Not yet.
But I was thinking about it.
Then Persephone stepped out again—this time in something laughably ethereal. Flowing. Laced within an inch of its life. The train dragged behind her like she was about to marry a prince instead of the devil at her throat.
She turned slowly toward the mirror, fingers brushing the fabric like it had personally offended her existence.
“Not bad,” I said, leaning back, sounding bored just to annoy her.
She turned that glare on me—a look that could peel paint off the walls. “You think this is not bad?”
“On you? It’s better than anything else you’ve worn today.”
And I meant it.
Her jaw flexed. Her hands pulled at the bodice like it was a straightjacket she planned to escape from by sheer will alone. “I’d rather wear a sack than this.”
I raised a brow, smirking. “Funny. A sack would match your personality just fine.”
Boom. Direct hit.
She scoffed—actually scoffed—and spun toward the curtain like she was going to strangle the next gown with her bare hands.
The curtain whipped closed.
A minute passed. Two.
Then—
She emerged.
Different gown. Different energy.
