And this dress? This dress is actively trying to kill me.
“No, no, no—she can’t go out in that neckline,” the lead stylist chirps, clapping her hands. “This is a ribbon-cutting, not a bachelor auction.”
“She asked for something simple,” another offers feebly, adjusting the hem.
“Simple?” The first scoffs. “She’s a brand. She’s a legacy. She survived a ghost ship and gave birth to a galactic icon. She can’t wearsimple.”
I close my eyes.
“Can I just... wear pants?” I mutter.
Three people gasp like I kicked a baby.
Apparently not.
Across the room, Pyramus is sitting on the edge of a holo-crate, fidgeting with the collar of his tiny formal jacket. The poor thing’s been tugging at it for five minutes, his little face screwed up in frustration.
“It’s choking me,” he whines, pawing at the fastener. “It’s itchy and mean and it hates me.”
“It’s not choking you, baby,” I say, gently prying his fingers off the clasp. “It’s just stiff because it’s new.”
“I want the dinosaur hoodie.”
“You can’t wear the dinosaur hoodie to a ribbon-cutting on a floating luxury mall.”
“Why not?”
“Because... reasons.”
He folds his arms and gives me a look. That look. The Garokk look. Chin lifted. Eyes narrowed. Like the laws of the universe are optional if he’s annoyed enough.
I sigh. “We’ll compromise. Keep the jacket, lose the neck bit.”
“Deal.”
He grins like he just brokered peace in the Badlands.
While one stylist starts refitting my bodice for the third time and another fusses with my lashes—“they must be dramatic, darling, but not tragic”—I sneak a glance at the reflection in the dressing mirror.
I don’t recognize her.
The woman in the mirror is flawless. Gown smooth as starlight. Hair coiled in gleaming loops. Lips painted a shade of victory. She looks composed. Polished. Powerful.
She looks fake.
The real me? She’s somewhere under the foundation. Somewhere behind the mascara. Somewhere chewing the inside of her cheek and wishing she could skip the next thirty minutes of her life.
This is my first big event since the Hulk. Since the escape pod. Since the nausea turned into a heartbeat.
Since Garokk.
The name is a knife. It slices through my thoughts whether I want it or not. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and try to push it away. Not today. Not now.
Not when the cameras are waiting.
“Three minutes to escort arrival,” says the aide near the door, checking her compad. “Final fixes, please.”
The stylists step back for a final once-over.
