Chapter 4

Alya stood before the full-length mirror in her small, attic-like room. The red dress clung to her body like a second skin, the silk cool and invasive. She looked like a stranger. A cheaper, more desperate version of herself.

She tugged at the neckline, a futile attempt to make it less revealing. The fabric was unforgiving. The girl in the mirror was exactly what they wanted her to be: an object, perfectly packaged for consumption.

The sound of approaching heels made her stiffen. The door swung open without a knock.

Chloe stood there, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her eyes swept over Alya, a flicker of something ugly-jealousy-in their depths. The dress was vulgar, but on Alya's frame, it still held a certain power that Chloe clearly resented.

"Just making sure you're ready to perform," Chloe said, strolling into the room. She circled Alya like a shark, a fake smile plastered on her face as she pretended to adjust the hem of the dress.

Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, Chloe's wrist "faltered."

The entire glass of dark red wine sloshed forward, splashing down the front of the silk dress.

Alya gasped, stumbling back. A large, ugly stain, the color of a fresh wound, spread rapidly across the bodice. The dress was ruined.

"Oh, my God!" Chloe feigned shock for a split second before her expression hardened into a familiar sneer. "Look what you made me do. You're so clumsy, always in the way."

Alya stared at her reflection. At the ruined dress. At the triumphant smirk on her sister's face. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

"What a shame," Chloe said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Now you'll have to wear that hideous little black thing you own. You're going to embarrass the entire family in front of our guests."

That was the point, of course. To humiliate her. To make her look pathetic and out of place.

Chloe placed the now-empty wine glass on Alya's nightstand with a clink, turned on her heel, and walked out, leaving the scent of her victory and expensive perfume in her wake.

Alya stood frozen for a long moment, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Then, with a surge of angry energy, she ripped the ruined dress off, the delicate fabric tearing with a satisfying sound.

She wouldn't hide. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of her absence. If they wanted to display her as a pawn, then she would be seen. On her own terms.

She pulled on her emergency option. A simple black dress she'd owned for years, its fabric worn soft from too many washings. It was elegant in its simplicity, but in a room full of couture, it would scream poverty.

She walked to her small vanity and pulled open the bottom drawer. Tucked beneath a stack of old sweaters was a small, dented tin box.

She lifted the lid. The handkerchief, folded neatly, lay inside. The embroidered 'L' seemed to catch the light.

Alya picked it up and pressed the soft, worn linen to her cheek. It didn't smell like wood and rain anymore. It just smelled of time. But it was enough.

A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She didn't let another one follow. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

She remembered the boy who had given it to her, the one who had shielded her from the storm. He was her secret, the one pure thing she had in a life built on lies and transactions.

Carefully, she folded the handkerchief and tucked it into a small, hidden pocket sewn into the lining of her dress, right over her heart.

She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, wiping away the trace of her tear. Her eyes, which had been filled with hurt just moments before, were now cool and assessing.

She was done being the girl who cried.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Alya Harrell opened her bedroom door and walked toward the party that was designed to be her personal hell.