"Pack your books. You're going to study in the car. I want to hear your thoughts on Marx's theory of alienation while you're wearing my diamond."
The command was casual, tossed over a shoulder like a scarf, but it landed with the weight of a decree. Camille didn't wait for an answer. She simply walked out of the bedroom, her heels clicking a rhythmic, predatory countdown on the hardwood floor.
Yanna stood alone in the center of the master suite.
She was wearing the dress.
It was a masterpiece of deception. It was white—a blinding, virginal white silk that fell in a column of purity from her collarbone to the floor. It had long sleeves. It had a high neck. From the outside, she looked like a debutante, a saint, a statue of untouchable grace.
But inside, she was screaming.
It feels... heavy.
Yanna took a small, tentative step. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, ragged sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
Oh god.
