I sat stiff on the low velvet couch in Clara Lawson's private quarters, sub-level three. The red dress clung to me like a second skin, mid-thigh, split so high the entire left leg flashed every time I breathed. Simon had spent two straight hours snarling about it upstairs.
"That dress makes you look like a whore, Irene. Change."
"I'm not wearing it for you."
"You're my wife. You'll embarrass me in front of my mother."
"I said I'm not wearing it for you."
He had grabbed my wrist, fingers digging in. "Take it off or I rip it off."
I had stared him dead in the eye. "Touch me and I scream this entire floor down. Let every wolf here smell how scared you are of your own mother seeing me like this."
He had let go. We came down in silence.
Now he sat beside me, thigh pressed to mine like he owned the space. I kept my legs crossed away from him, the split riding higher. He kept shooting side-glances at the exposed skin, jaw clenched.
The door opened.
