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He stays rooted in place, his glare fixed on Mannie until the man finally inclines his head and steps away, his smile lingering as he retreats. Just before he turns fully, Mannie glances back at Finn and says, “There are bonds in existence that have much power… ignore them and they may consume you. Deny them, and they may break you.”
Finn exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he finally speaks. “You dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’.” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a tremor beneath it—something raw, something unguarded. Mannie only smirks before he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving the room with effortless ease.
Finn remains where he is, his shoulders still rigid, his breathing slow but heavy. He doesn’t move until Mannie is gone. Only then does Finn’s gaze shift back to me, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment. I feel every muscle in my body urging me to stop him, to force him into a conversation he clearly doesn’t want to have. The words are there, trapped behind my teeth, but with impossible strength, I hold them back. I know if I push now, it won’t go well.
Without a word, he turns and walks away, his retreating figure taut with emotion he doesn’t dare show. The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
I stand there, frozen, as my thoughts spiral.
This is no mere friendship for me now. It has transformed into something deeper, something that sets my heart alight. The sound of his laughter has become not just pleasant, but necessary. I catch myself memorising the way he looks at me, searching for something more in his gaze. His absence doesn’t just leave a space beside me, but an ache in my very soul.
And the thought that he might not feel the same? That terrifies me. Caring for someone this deeply is a danger. Handing over your heart means giving someone the power to destroy you. If something happens to them—if they leave, if fate is cruel—it doesn’t just hurt. It rips a part of you away, a piece you never get back. Perhaps that is why I should turn back now, before it is too late.
But such thoughts are a folly. I fear I am already lost to him.
The sight of the bundle of fabric my aunt left for me is both thrilling and unnerving—unlike anything I’ve ever worn.
Deidre sidles up beside me, her sharp eyes catching my wide-eyed expression. She lets out a soft chuckle, her amusement warm but tinged with mischief.
“Let’s get you all gussied up, my sweet,” she teases, her tone light and coaxing, as if I were a skittish horse she’s determined to saddle.
I hesitate, glancing at her as my cheeks heat. “Shouldn’t there be…”
“No room for undergarments in this one, love,” she says, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. “The dress will do all the work.”
A fresh wave of nerves ripples through me. My mind fixates on the absence of that missing layer, the stark susceptibility it creates.
The soft brush of fabric against naked skin magnifies the sensation, turning the dress from something merely daring to something scandalously intimate. It’s not just revealing—it’s a shedding of armour, a deliberate unwrapping of restraint. I should be mortified. I should demand something more modest, more… safe.
And yet.
The vibrant red hue, the daring cut, the way the fabric slides over me like whispered temptation—it all sends a thrill racing through me. The fabric clings like a lover’s embrace, and celebrates every curve as if it were made for me alone.
The bodice is made of a sheer, nude fabric that gives the illusion of bare skin, embroidered with intricate red and gold detailing that curves across me like living art. The delicate embellishments bloom like flower petals, trailing into a plunging V at the front and skim dangerously close to the edges of my nipples—leaving me achingly aware of just how exposed I am.
The skirt is unapologetically bold. The daring slit at my hip leaves my leg fully exposed with every step—a deliberate choice, a provocation I’m unaccustomed to.
The dress commands confidence.
As I catch my reflection, I’m transfixed by the woman staring back at me. I see a version of myself I scarcely recognise—a woman fierce and unafraid. I behold a strength that effortlessly silences lingering doubts, a willpower capable of shattering even the most obstinate barriers.
Unshed tears glisten in my eyes as I realise I have, in many ways, been remade. It’s as if the woman before me has emerged from a long-forgotten dream, ready to seize life with unbridled passion and grace.
Deidre stands behind me, her hands on her hips, a satisfied grin spreading across her face. “There she is,” she sighs softly.
“Who?” I ask, still in awe.
“This version of yourself they won’t be able to stop talking about.”
Deidre works quickly but skilfully, weaving my hair into a loose, cascading style—long waves tumbling down my back and over my shoulders. Small red flowers are nestled into the strands, their delicate petals standing out against the rich brown hue. A few soft tendrils frame my face, grazing the curve of my neck, adding to the romantic, almost ethereal effect. She adds a touch of colour to my cheeks and lips before leaning close to dab a familiar fragrance behind my ear.
“Is that primrose?” I ask, excitement slipping into my voice.
Deidre’s smile widens knowingly. “Your aunt’s favourite,” she says. “She loves how it gives off a profound fragrance—”
“And just the right balance of the florals and woods that surround it?” I interrupt, laughing as the words leave my mouth. My mother’s voice echoes in those words, and Deidre’s expression softens with recognition.
My laughter fades as the bittersweet memory settles, tugging at my heart. Smiling feels wrong when I think of how she’d gasp at the sight of me, dressed the way I am now, her wide eyes filled with both shock and admiration. My body tenses, but Deidre’s hands settle firmly on my shoulders, grounding me. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, steady and full of warmth.
