Translation?Marcus picked this himself, didn’t he?
“Very specific,” I agree. “Not something I would have chosen.”
Translation?I hate everything about this.
“But it photographs well.” Alex pulls out her phone. Pretends to check the time. “The color will look good in pictures.”
Translation?He’s going to parade you around. Document this. Make it look real.
My stomach turns.
Mariana pins the hem. Another accidental jab to my ankle.
“Ow.”
“So sorry.” Still not meeting my eyes. “Almost done.”
It’s already nearing four. The office is getting ready to close for the day. I can hear people packing up. Voices in the hallway. The elevator dinging. Friday feels like a lifetime away and also like tomorrow.
Two days. I have Two days to prepare for this.
Two days to figure out how to survive being Marcus Ashford’s accessory.
“Turn,” Mariana instructs.
I turn. The dress shifts. Catches light. Looks like something from a magazine. Like something a politician’s girlfriend would wear to impress donors.
That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s exactly the point.
Alex meets my eyes in the reflection of Amber’s old window. That look. The one that says we’ll figure this out.
I don’t know how. But if Alex says we will, I believe her.
“You’re handling this better than most,” Mariana says quietly. Pinning the back seam.
I freeze. “Most?”
She doesn’t look up. Keeps working. “I dress a lot of girls for Mr. Ashford’s events.” Pause. Careful. “You’re not the first.”
Alex stops swinging her legs.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The dress suddenly feels tighter. The pins sharper.
“The others...” I start.
“Didn’t handle it as well.” Mariana’s voice is flat. Professional. But there’s something underneath. Sympathy? Warning? “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re figuring things out.” She steps back. Studies her work. Finally meets my eyes. “The smart ones figure it out.”
She doesn’t say what happens to the ones who don’t. Doesn’t say how many dresses she’s made for women who disappeared. How many times she’s measured and pinned and warned, knowing it might not be enough.
She doesn’t have to.
The ring flares hot against my chest. Dahlia’s ring. One of the ones who didn’t figure it out fast enough.
My stomach drops. The serpent at my spine coils tight.
