Controlled.
Composed.
Like she hadn’t just put on something that made the world tilt on its axis.
She looked like a sin wrapped in silk.
Her lips were pressed into a flat, brittle line. She didn’t look at me.
But her fingers twitched behind her, fumbling with the zipper.
Nervous?
No.
Fractured.
I leaned back, letting my smile spread—slow and satisfied.
Because that dress didn’t just fit her.
It claimed her.
“Now that,” I said, voice like velvet over fire, “is what I’m talking about.”
She still didn’t look my way.
Cowardice? No.
Self-preservation.
Because if she looked at me, she’d see exactly how I saw her—and that would be far more dangerous than any mirror.
Her gaze stayed fixed on her reflection, eyes narrowed like she was trying to dissect herself.
Figure out when the girl in the mirror became someone wearing a wedding dress for a man she claimed to hate.
“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” she muttered, voice quiet but laced with enough venom to melt steel.
“Ruin?” I chuckled, stepping closer—calm, controlled, circling.
“This isn’t ruin, Persephone. This is revelation. That—” I nodded to the mirror, “—is a perfect fit.”
Her eyes flicked to mine for a heartbeat—just long enough to ignite the fuse—before darting away again.
“I won’t be your trophy,” she snapped, steel in her voice now.
(There it was. The fire. The fight.)
“I’m not some prize to parade around.”
“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” I murmured, tilting my head. “Standing there… dressing for the occasion?”
She squared her shoulders, mouth tight, body tense.
Bracing for war.
“No,” she said through gritted teeth, fingers still dancing at the back of the dress like it was choking her. “I’m just trying on clothes.”
