This one?
Sleek.
Satin.
Sin incarnate.
It hugged every curve with the confidence of a lover who didn’t ask permission. The neckline was sharp, the silhouette lethal. She didn’t walk in it—she prowled.
She placed her hands on her hips like she was daring me to speak.
“This one?” she asked, chin tilted like she was already preparing for battle.
I let my gaze drag from her collarbone to her ankles and back again.
Slow.
Appreciative.
Predatory.
I smirked. “Much better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you would think so.”
“Do you want to try something else?” I asked, voice honeyed and dangerous. “Or do you need me to remind you that your options are running out?”
Her lips pressed into a line so thin it could’ve cut glass.
There it was—that war inside her.
Fight or fold.
Burn it all down, or burn quietly in silk and submission.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low enough to crawl across the space between us. “Keep trying, Persephone.” A pause. Smile curling. Wicked and inevitable. “I’ve got all day.”
But then?—
She pulled a gown from the far end of the rack.
Simple.
Satin.
Form-fitting.
Sharp in its elegance. Like it was crafted for a woman who’d rather wield a dagger than a bouquet.
No lace.
No frills.
Just clean, merciless lines and the kind of ivory that wasn’t meant to symbolize purity?—
It was meant to tempt ruin.
She stepped out slowly.
