Page 270 of Wicked Brutal

“Their families?”

“Yes.” She exhales, and her shoulders drop an inch. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because you’re not protecting this alone.” My anger cracks around the edges. Bella looks at Cat. Becca. Penny. Then me. “And apparently anyone who tries to get to you has to survive these three first.”

Penny folds her arms. “You’re still on the list.”

Bella looks at her. “I’d be offended if I wasn’t.” Then she looks at the dress, and her nose wrinkles. “No.”

“What?”

“This still isn’t it.”

Penny stares at her. “We just had a fucking hostage negotiation.”

“And the waistline is still wrong.” For one second nobody speaks. Then Becca laughs. Cat’s mouth twitches. I do too. Bella points at the dressing room. “Change.”

And somehow, we go back to shopping. Only now Bella knows. And everything about the way she helps changes.

She starts asking about alteration allowances. Extra fabric. How much the waist can be let out without ruining the shape. She does it so smoothly the consultant never blinks — never has any reason to wonder why a teenager needs a prom dress built to grow. She rejects anything that won’t change with me. But she also refuses anything designed to bury me under fabric, anything that treats my body like a thing to be hidden instead of dressed. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing both at once. I don’t think she could tell me where she learned it.

Eventually she disappears with the consultant and comes back carrying another dress. “This one.”

Penny sighs. “You’ve said that six times.”

Bella ignores her and holds it out to me. “Trust me.”

Penny snorts. “Bold request today.”

I take it anyway.

The second I see myself in the dressing-room mirror, I know. The bodice fits without squeezing me. The skirt falls softly from my waist, structured enough to be beautiful, forgiving enough to change with me. And my stomach — it’s there. My little bump. Not hidden. Not obvious enough that anyone who doesn’t already know would understand. But there. So are the bruises on my arms. For one second, I look at all of it at once. What Dad did. What Ryan and I made. What I’m surviving. What I’m keeping.

Then I walk out.

Nobody speaks. Becca’s eyes immediately fill again. Cat smiles. Penny’s mouth falls open.

Bella looks me over once. Then nods. “That’s it.”

I turn toward the mirror and suddenly I’m crying.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Cat says.

I laugh and wipe beneath my eye. “What?”

“No more crying. We’ve met our quota.”

“You’re crying,” Becca tells Cat.

Cat wipes beneath one eye. “No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Mind your business.”

I look at myself again. At the dress. At my stomach. At the bruises Dad left on me. And for one stupid, beautiful second, I can picture Ryan beside me. His hand over mine. No hiding. No pretending we hate each other. No Victor. No Dad deciding where I’m supposed to stand or who I’m supposed to become. Just Ryan. Me. Our baby.