I part the curtain and step out.
Damon looks up from his chair, eyes dragging over me. His mouth curves, but it’s not hungry. Not quite.
“It’s pretty,” he says. Then, more honestly, “Too pretty.”
“Too pretty?” I echo.
He gestures vaguely. “You look like you’re about to go to a fucking garden party.”
Jade hums in agreement. “Tell me more about what you want to present at the ceremony.”
“Present?”
“Yes, like who do you want these people to see when you walk in the room?”
“The Baron King’s wife,” I say instantly.
“And?” she prompts.
I glance back at Damon and he’s listening too, waiting to hear what I say. The truth is I haven’t thought much beyond that. My goal, since I can remember, is being the Baron King’s companion. His wife. But the way Jade and Damon look at me makes me feel like that isn’t enough.
God. Iknowit isn’t.
“I want to look strong,” I admit. “Not like the drowned rat that was pulled from the river that everyone felt sorry for, or a child handed from one man to another as part of a transaction. I want to look in control.” My heart pounds. “Of my body. My men. Of my life.”
Jade nods, a grin spreading across her mouth. “Oh girl, yes. All of that. All. Of. Fucking. That.”
The dress comes off.
The next one is darker–deep emerald, structured, with a deep neckline and a cinched waist that flares into a heavy, full skirt. Jade tightens the straps and sends me out of the dressing room. My hands smooth over my hips.
This time I have Damon’s full attention. “Okay,” he says. “That one’s dangerous.”
I preen despite myself. “Dangerous good or dangerous bad?”
He squints. “Like one wrong move and the fabric will swallow you.”
I lift the skirt, or try, but he’s right. I can barely control it.
Jade clicks her tongue. “Damn shame. The color loves her.”
“Next,” I say, already stepping back.
The third dress is… dramatic. Too dramatic. High neck, long sleeves, severe lines that make my reflection feel unfamiliar, like I’ve borrowed someone else’s body.
I step out anyway.
Damon blinks. Then snorts. “Who is that?”
“Exactly,” I mutter.
“You look like you’re about to fire someone,” he adds. “Or curse a bloodline. Which would be okay except you’re going to celebrate the new Prince and I think it may start a war.”
Jade winces. “Yeah. No. That’s definitely not what we’re going for.”
Off it goes.
I change and change again, bare feet against the hardwood floors, fabric whispering over my skin, each version of myself flickering and disappearing in the mirror. One has a tight corset that pushes my breasts up to my chin.
