And somehow—somehow—I was excited.
Not scared-excited.
Not bracing-excited.
Just… excited.
Like I’d been granted a small slice of normal again. I’d survived the primping appointments Rachel insisted on. Hair. Nails. Waxing.
I’d never had a Brazilian before. I wasn’t entirely sure I would forgive Rachel for that one. But I was smooth…everywhere.
Archie’s house had turned into a staging ground by late afternoon. Jeremy moved through it like a tactical mastermind, calmly intercepting chaos before it could become real. The cats were suspicious of everything—especially the garment bag hanging on my door like a threat.
And me?
I was in my room, wearing the dress.
The dress was even better than I remembered.
Wine-dark red. Deep and rich and warm, it was a declaration that I wasn’t sure I could back up but was eager to try. Thin straps. Confident neckline. The gentle A-line that let me breathe and dance and still feel like myself.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared.
Not because I didn’t recognize the girl.
Because Idid.
Rachel sat behind me on the edge of my bed, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, spine straight, posture perfect. She looked like she belonged in a fashion house boardroom, not a high school bedroom.
Her dress was midnight blue satin — not navy, not royal — the kind of deep, liquid blue that shifted almost black until the light caught it and revealed its depth. It hugged her like it had been cut specifically for her body, clean lines, no fuss, no sparkle. The neckline dipped just enough to be dangerous, the fabric smoothing over her waist and hips before falling in a long, sleek line to the floor.
No ruffles. No drama.
Shewas the drama.
Her dark hair had been swept into a low, polished knot at the nape of her neck, a few deliberate pieces framing her face like she’d allowed them there. Her makeup was sharp and intentional — winged liner, muted lip, highlight placed with surgical precision.
If I looked like a fairytale in my gown…
Rachel looked like the villain who won. It was adamngood look on her too.
She watched my reflection in the mirror like she was judging a competition she’d already rigged in my favor.
“You’re going to ruin lives,” she said flatly.
I blinked. “Rachel?—”
“You’re going to ruin lives,” she repeated, slower this time, like I might not fully grasp the gravity of the situation. “Frankie. That color on you is illegal. Someone should arrest you.”
Heat climbed my face. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am being accurate,” she corrected coolly.
Then she leaned forward, satin whispering against itself, eyes narrowing with laser focus. “Turn.”
I turned.
Rachel made a low, satisfied sound in the back of her throat — like a cat who had just successfully pushed something priceless off a marble counter and was very pleased with the chaos.
