“This one,” Josie said, holding up a gown so dark it seemed to drink the light around it.
Deep violet.Almost black.
Beaded stars scattered across the bodice like constellations mapped with care.The neckline whispered sin, begging for my collar’s attention.The silhouette was sharp.Controlled.
Power without apology.
It was dangerous.
And it was perfect.
By the time my hair was styled, loose waves, intentional disorder, and my makeup painted on in shadowed precision, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
My lips were stained the color of crushed berries.My eyes burned gold beneath dark lashes.My posture was straight, unflinching.
This woman did not ask for permission.
And around my neck—
The collar.
Jeweled.Elegant.Subtle enough to be missed by the untrained eye.
Unmistakable to anyone who understood.
Not an accessory.A signal.
A declaration crafted with care.
Everyone at that gala would read it differently.
Some would see fashion.
Some would see mystery.
Creed would see agreement.
I swallowed hard.
Had they shaped me into something he approved of?
Or had they stripped away everything false until only choice remained?
Christie, a beauty with two nose piercings, met my gaze in the mirror, her voice lowering as she murmured, “You look breathtaking.”Then, with a knowing smile, “Now go remind Mr.Kirkland exactly who he brought with him.”
I nodded slowly.
I wasn’t walking into a gala.I was stepping onto a battlefield of influence, image, and expectation.
Dressed in silk.
Anchored by choice.
And tonight—
I wouldn’t beg for forgiveness.I would negotiate power.
