The small space feels even smaller when I'm anxious,narrow bed, cramped closet, desk covered in herbal notes and textbooks. Through the window, I can see campus spreading out below, students moving between classes in the fading afternoon light.
Lila arrives exactly five minutes later, slightly breathless, eyes wide with concern.
"What happened? Are you okay? Didsomeone?—"
"I need to be perfect." I thrust the invitation at her. "Look at this.Lookat it."
She takes the heavy cardstock, reads it, lets out a low whistle. "Okay. Fancy. So, you need an outfit for… when is this? Saturday? We have four days. That's doable."
"I don't have anything, Lila. Nothing even close to appropriate." I gesture at my closet helplessly. "Everything I own is student casual or greenhouse practical or?—"
"Okay. Deep breath." She sets the invitation on my desk, takes my hands. "Why are you panicking? You've met his parents before."
"That was different. That was campus. This is their home. Their world." I pull my hands free, press them against my stomach where anxiety coils tight. "I need to be perfect for him. For them. For my pack. I need Margaret to see that I'm… that I can…"
"Stop." Lila's voice is firm but kind. "You don't need to prove anything. Calder chose you. The pack chose you. You're already enough."
"But I want to look the part. I want to feel confident." My voice cracks. "I just want one dinner where Margaret doesn't look at me and see all the ways I'm not Victoria Winters."
Lila's expression softens. "Okay. Then let's find you something that makes you feel amazing. Come on. Let's look through your closet. Maybe there's something we can work with."
We spend the next twenty minutes pulling out everything I own. It's depressing.
A simple black dress I wore to a funeral three years ago, too somber, too sad, too associated with grief. A blue sundressthat's too casual and too short. Slacks and a blouse that might work for a campus presentation but not for a formal estate dinner.
"This is hopeless," I say, staring at the pile of rejected clothes on my bed. "I have nothing."
"Okay. New plan." Lila starts rehanging things with characteristic efficiency. "We go shopping. There's that boutique in town, the one with the window display that always looks expensive but sometimes has sales. We can?—"
A knock interrupts her.
"Elowen Rowan?" A voice calls through the door. "Delivery."
I exchange confused glances with Lila. "I didn't order anything."
"Maybe one of your alphas did?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Secret gift? Romantic gesture?"
I open the door to find a delivery person holding a large flat box, plain brown cardboard with my name on a simple white label. Nothing fancy. No company logo.
"Sign here, please."
I scribble my signature, take the box. It's lighter than I expected but substantial.
I set it on my desk, pull the simple string tie. The box opens easily.
Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is fabric so soft I gasp when my fingers touch it.
"What…?" I lift it carefully. A dress unfolds in my hands, deep burgundy that catches the light like wine, the kind of color that makes you think of autumn leaves and firelight and warmth.
Cashmere. It'scashmere.
"Holy shit," Lila breathes. “Elowen, this is like... stupid soft. Touch this.Touch it!."
"I am touching it." My voice sounds strange. Distant. "I can't believe fabric can feel like this."
There's more in the box. I pull out each item with careful hands:
Simple leather boots in warm cognac, ankle-height with a modest heel. Quality I can feel in the supple leather, the careful stitching.
