The figure standing before the three-paneled mirror was not me.
Silvia was wearing the gown—my gown—its skirt spreading at her feet like spilled champagne. She turned slowly in front of the mirror, smiling without a trace of burden, as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world. As if she had always been meant to stand there, draped in silk that had been cut to my measurements, fitted to my frame.
That gown was meant to belong to me alone.
From the sketches to the cut, from the Venetian lace to every hand-stitched pearl, I had personally approved each detail with Signora Marchetti. The old seamstress had once said it was less a dress than an obsession—a bride's armor for the day she would seal a blood-bound alliance between two of the most powerful families in the territory. And now that obsession was draped over someone else, displayed like a trophy already claimed.
"You're finally here," Silvia said first, her tone gentle, almost considerate. "We've all been waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" I stepped closer, slowly, my heels clicking against the marble floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. "Or waiting for this moment?"
She seemed not to understand, still studying herself in the mirror, turning her shoulder to catch the light. "I was just helping you check the effect. Time is tight before the union ceremony. Someone had to try it first."
I stared at the reflection—her face where mine should have been, her body wearing my future like borrowed skin. My voice came out unnaturally calm, the kind of calm that preceded violence in the world we inhabited.
"Take it off."
Only then did she turn, wearing that familiar innocent expression—the one that had fooled our father, our mother, every soldier and associate who had ever crossed the Ashford threshold. "You don't need to be so tense, Elena. It's just a dress."
"It's not your dress," I said.
She smiled, her tone light as poisoned wine. "But don't you think it suits me better?"
I did not answer right away. Emotion surged in my chest—rage, betrayal, the bitter taste of years spent watching her take everything I had ever been promised—but I forced it down. In our world, the one who lost control first lost everything.
"Now," I repeated. "Take it off."