Chapter Three: Borrowed Dresses and Borrowed Light
Sophia told me about the gala like it was nothing. Like she was inviting me to get coffee after class.
We were in the library, surrounded by tall, silent books. She was spinning slowly in her desk chair.
"My parents are hosting this charity thing on Saturday," she said, her voice casual. "You should come."
I looked up from my book. "Me?"
"Yes, you." She stopped spinning and leaned forward. "It'll be fun. Music. Fancy little food. Boring rich people you can make fun of with me."
I hesitated. My life wasn't full of galas. My father's events were cold, political affairs I was usually told to avoid. "Sophia, that's really kind, but I don't… I don't have anything to wear to something like that."
She stared at me for a full three seconds. Then she laughed. Not a mean laugh. A bright, surprised one.
"Aira," she said, standing up with a dramatic flourish. "I have three closets in my room. Three. And half the stuff in them still has the tags on. We are not letting a dress be the problem."
I shook my head, my old anxieties rising. "I can't just take your clothes. And I wouldn't fit in."
"You can," she interrupted, her voice firm but kind. "And you will. It's settled. You're coming over Friday to raid my closets and stay the night."
That was how, two days later, I found myself standing at the foot of the stone path leading to the Royce house. I clutched my small overnight bag like a shield.
The house wasn't what I expected. It wasn't a stark, modern mansion like the Grace house, which always felt like it was looming, judging you. This house… welcomed.
It was made of warm, old stone. Ivy grew along the walls, not perfectly trimmed, but alive. Golden light glowed behind the tall windows. As we walked up the path, I smelled flowers from the garden and something sweet baking. Vanilla, maybe. It didn't smell like polish and pressure. It smelled lived-in. Loved.
"Just breathe," Sophia said, bumping her shoulder gently into mine. "They really don't bite."
I gave her a nervous smile. "You say that very confidently."
The heavy wooden door swung open before we even knocked.
A woman stood there. She had the kindest eyes I'd ever seen, a soft gray-blue. Her hair, streaked with silver, was pulled into a loose bun. She wore a simple, cream-colored cardigan. She smiled, and it reached her eyes, making little crinkles at the corners. It was a smile that felt like it had been waiting just for us.
"You must be Aira," she said. Her voice was warm, like the light from the windows.
I froze for a half-second, my manners kicking in. "Yes, ma'am."
She laughed gently. "Oh, no 'ma'am.' Please. I'm Aurora." She reached out and took both my hands in hers. Her hands were warm and slightly rough, like someone who gardened or baked. She gave them a soft squeeze. "We're so glad you're here. Sophia talks about you all the time."
Sophia groaned beside me. "Mother. You'll scare her off."
Aurora just smiled wider. "Nonsense. Come in, dear. You must be tired from the trip."
Inside, the warmth was more than physical. The air smelled like cinnamon tea and polished oak. Soft classical music drifted from another room. The walls weren't bare; they were covered in framed photographs. Not stiff, formal portraits, but real moments. A little Sophia with missing front teeth. A teenage Rowan, looking serious but standing protectively close to his sister. Pictures of holidays, of birthdays with smudged cake. A family, frozen in time, looking happy. Real.
A man rose from a large, worn armchair by a crackling fireplace.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his posture was relaxed. He had kind eyes, the same as Sophia's, and deep laugh lines around his mouth.
"Ah," he said, his voice a rich, friendly rumble. He clapped his hands together once. "So this is the philosopher."
I startled. "I—what?"
Charles Royce grinned. "Sophia told me you study Philosophy. A dangerous subject. Makes young people think too much."
Sophia rolled her eyes affectionately. "Dad tells stories instead of listening to logic."
Charles waved a hand. "Logic is overrated. Stories are how we remember who we are. And who we want to be." He turned his full attention to me, his expression softening. "You're welcome here, Aira. Any friend of my daughter's is family."
Something tight and cold in my chest just… melted. Just a little.
They showed me to a guest room. It was simple and clean, with a quilt on the bed and a vase of fresh daisies on the nightstand.
"Dinner's in an hour," Aurora said. "Nothing fancy. Just soup and bread. After that, we begin Operation Transformation."
Sophia clapped her hands. "Yes!"
---
The closets were, in a word, overwhelming.
Room after room of clothes wasn't quite right. Sophia's dressing room was like a small, colorful boutique. Rows of dresses hung neatly. Silk that shimmered. Satin that looked like liquid. Lace so delicate it seemed made of air. Colors I never wore—emerald, crimson, deep violet. These were dresses for someone who knew how to be seen.
I touched the sleeve of a silver gown carefully. "These are all… yours?"
Sophia nodded, looking a bit sheepish. "Impulse shopping is my toxic trait. And my mother's. She buys me things." She rummaged through a rack and pulled out a dress. It was a deep, midnight blue, floor-length and simple in its cut. It flowed like water over her arm. "This one," she declared.
I shook my head, taking a step back. "Sophia, no. It's too much. It's too beautiful."
She looked at me, her teasing gone, replaced by a gentle firmness. "It's just enough. Try it."
Getting ready felt surreal. Aurora helped me, her fingers gentle as she fastened the tiny buttons at the back. The fabric was cool and heavy, settling against my skin. Sophia brushed my long hair, carefully working through the knots. For a fleeting moment, the gentle tug of the brush, the quiet concentration, felt like my mother's hands. My throat closed up, and I had to blink hard.
Aurora noticed. She didn't say anything. She just handed me a simple pair of earrings and smiled. "There," she said, stepping back. "You look beautiful."
Not stunning. Not breathtaking. Not words that felt like performance.
Beautiful. A word that felt true.
---
The gala was held in a large glass-walled hall that opened into the garden. Tiny lights were strung through the trees like captured fireflies. Soft music wound through the warm evening air. People moved in groups, laughing with a ease that seemed genuine, not forced.
I stayed close to Sophia at first, feeling like a ghost in a borrowed body, overwhelmed by the murmur of voices and the swirl of color.
Then I felt it. That quiet, certain shift in the atmosphere. The sense of being watched.
I looked up.
Rowan stood near a stone column at the edge of the crowd. He wore a black suit that fit him perfectly, no fuss, no flourish. He wasn't talking to anyone. He wasn't smiling. He was just… present. A still point in the moving room.
His eyes found mine across the space.
For a heartbeat, everything else blurred. The music faded. The laughter muted.
He gave me a single, polite nod. Nothing more. Then he looked away.
But my heart, foolish thing, stumbled over a beat.
Sophia leaned in, her voice a whisper in my ear. "Try not to stare. It's obvious."
"I'm not staring," I whispered back, my face warm.
"You absolutely are."
Aurora rescued me, slipping her arm through mine. "Come, dear. There are some lovely people you should meet. They tell terrible jokes. You'll feel right at home."
As the night deepened, Charles held court by the fireplace. He didn't give speeches. He told stories—about his old friend who tried to start a vineyard and only made vinegar, about losing everything once and finding something better. People gathered around, listening not out of duty, but because he made them laugh and think. He made hope sound simple.
At one point, Rowan stood at the edge of this circle, listening. He didn't speak. But when his father finished a story about resilience, Rowan reached out and placed a hand briefly, firmly, on Charles's shoulder.
The gesture was small. Silent. It spoke of pride, of love, of a bond that needed no words.
It stayed with me.
Later, when the moon was high and the crowd had thinned, I escaped to the edge of the garden. The cool air was a relief. I stood by a blooming jasmine bush, breathing in its sweet scent.
I heard a soft step on the gravel behind me.
Rowan appeared beside me, leaving a respectful space between us.
"You look like you belong here," he said. His voice was quieter out here, under the sky.
I was surprised. "I don't usually belong at parties."
He nodded, looking out at the dark garden. "I know the feeling."
"Your sister likes to pull people into the light," I said softly.
He glanced at me. A flicker of something—understanding, maybe—in his dark eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "She does. She believes everyone deserves some light."
A comfortable silence settled between us. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was just quiet, shared space under a star-dusted sky.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, standing there in a borrowed dress, I didn't feel like I was just borrowing warmth, borrowing a family, borrowing a moment.
It felt, incredibly, like it might be mine to keep.