I wasn't accustomed to wearing a dress that I probably couldn't afford a single lace of, even if I worked an entire year—voluminous tulle, pitch black, and encrusted with rubies. If Chloe saw me like this, she would likely bite her lip and look at me with narrowed, admiring eyes.
Whoever designed this must have envisioned a queen. The darkness within me, long accustomed to the label of a "freak" in my secluded corners, still felt estranged from this dress—a masterpiece worthy of royalty that would fetch millions if sold. It was the kind of garment I could never buy in a lifetime of labor.
Varg had memorized even the curves of my waist; he had commissioned a dress that matched my measurements perfectly. Because of this, one part of me was a blooming spring garden, while the other was bitter.
"You are worthy." I told myself. "You are worthy of the most beautiful things." Yet, for some reason, carrying such expensive rubies made my cheeks flush as red as the stones themselves.
