Page 110 of What Goes Around

I didn’t need to explain myself twice. She understood what I wanted almost immediately.

A week earlier, I’d bought the dress.

A limited piece from Élise Morcant, an up-and-coming designer whose name meant nothing yet. Each design produced once. No replicas. No repeats. Collector pieces.

In four years, her early work would be hunted down by stylists and collectors alike. Auctioned. Archived. Worn on red carpets and runways in Paris, Milan, New York. Words like timeless and iconic would be attached to her name.

I knew that because I’d lived it before.

The dress was delivered straight to my room, sealed and untouched. I made sure no one saw it before tonight.

Over the past few months, eating well, training with purpose, and no longer punishing my body had changed me. It softened me in the right places, replacing angles with curves.

The dress required only minimal alterations, one of the few advantages of having proportions designers built their samples for.

Now, I filled it perfectly.

The dress was floor-length, deep red silk, cut to move rather than restrain. Elegant without stiffness. A high slit along my thigh that turned beautiful into unmistakably sensual. Appropriate for the event, yet impossible to ignore.

My light blonde hair was styled half up, half down, clip-in extensions adding length. I’d chosen it carefully. I’d shown the stylist an old photograph of my mother. Her wedding photo my uncles had given me. Her hair had been styled the same way.

I wanted to look like her.

For more reasons than one.

My makeup carried the same intent, with defined eyes and cool tones that made my blue irises look sharper and more expressive.

When the moment came, I didn’t hesitate.

I walked into the hotel and into the ballroom, head high, spine straight, shoulders back.

I felt the shift before I saw it.

Conversations faltered. Glasses stilled. Heads turned. The stares followed, surprise, confusion, disbelief. Some admiration. Some resentment. Something darker in a few of them.

Let them look.

I kept moving.

I made it halfway into the room before Marissa noticed me. Her body stiffened as the color drained from her face almost instantly.

Then, just as quickly, she recovered, her expression smoothing as the mask slipped back into place.

She moved toward me quickly, abandoning her champagne flute on a passing tray, her heels clicking as her smile settled into place. Her arms opened as if this had been exactly what she had planned all along.

“Ashley,” she said brightly. “There you are.”

I smiled back and returned the hug. Over her shoulder, I caught sight of my father.

He looked sick, like he couldn’t decide whether to vomit or pass out. But beneath that was something else too. Something that looked disturbingly like heartbreak.

I could feel Apple somewhere nearby, sharp, furious, burning, but I didn’t look for her yet.

Marissa pulled back and scanned me from head to toe.

“Why aren’t you wearing the dress we picked?” she asked. “I had it steamed this morning.”

I lowered my gaze briefly, just enough to appear apologetic.