Who will I become?
I pick up the red dress and hold the shape against me. Its neckline is high, like that of the black gown, to cover the healing cut on my throat, the sleeves long, every line strict and certain. The hem falls past my knees. Not a scrap of skin exposed that doesn’t need to be.
It’ll hide every mark left from the car crash, every scrape, every bruise from Kirill’s rescue and those men’s hands. No one would know what I went through. Not even me, if I looked in a mirror.
He didn’t just guess my size. He knows it. Exactly.
A deep, cold weight settles in the pit of my stomach.
He’s been watching me. Not just paying attention to my words, but also to how I move. Who I am, right down to the inches between my shoulders, the curve of my hips, the shape of my body.
I am his focus. Only me.
Goosebumps race over my skin. I suck in a breath, my brain fuzzy. The knowledge of those icy eyes staring me down, observing me—and only me—for who knows how long, sends an arc of lust oozing through my stomach.
I drop the dress, which hits the bedspread and pools out like blood. I gape, my heartbeat wild.
Am I going to do this?
For reasons I can’t name, I peel off my borrowed clothes and let them fall. I face the closet’s sliding, mirrored door and spot the naked map of bruises and scrapes. The butterfly bandage glares on my neck.
All the evidence of my week of struggles, painted in blues and purples, with stripes of angry crimson.
I pull the red dress over my head. The cold silk slides down over all the rawness, all the proof, smoothing the marks away.The fabric settles, weighted and perfect. Not too tight or too loose.
Neat. Measured. Precise.
So not me.
I study myself in the mirror. A woman I don’t recognize squints back.
She’s sleek. Dangerous. She belongs where people never use their real names. Not Jordan the spiritual guide, not the girl who ran through the park barefoot because she couldn’t find any other way.
This woman is polished. Composed. Every edge sharp, every feeling locked down tight.
She fits at Kirill’s side. She’s not out of place at a gala or at a sentencing.
The thought terrifies me. But a flicker of power—of potential—stirs beneath that terror, much like stepping into armor.
I don’t know myself.
Maybe that’s the point.
My bedroom door’s not quite latched. An inch of gap reveals an empty line of the hallway. A sharp, silent invitation.
I stare, motionless, torn between two nearly equal urges.
To pull the door tight, lock it, and wall myself off from what waits beyond. Or to step out and see what happens next.
Out there lies the rest of the house, including Kirill and everything tangled up with him.
I ought to close myself in and wait for tomorrow’s conference.
But that thread of light has me leaning forward despite myself. Toward a world of unseen possibilities.
With careful fingertips, I push the door open. The hallway stretches away, void, and silence greets me.
No running water or footsteps. Just the low hum of the fridge and the tick of some distant clock.
