Eleanor looked away.
Charleston.
The ADA.
The way he had stepped back when the headlines turned sharp.
The social circles choosing him.
Her being painted ambitious, ruthless, manipulative.
He had higher aspirations.
She had understood that.
Understanding hadn’t made it hurt less.
“This is different,” she said quietly.
April folded her arms. “How?”
“He’s the District Attorney.”
April blinked. “And?”
“And this ends badly.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“I’m not doing another relationship under a spotlight,” she added, softer. “Not again.”
April studied her for a long moment.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m practical.”
April handed her the emerald dress.
“Try it on, Practical.”
Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom.
When Eleanor stepped out, the bathroom light caught the deep, liquid shimmer of the silk. It didn’t fit like a suit; it draped. It felt dangerously thin against her skin, a reminder that tonight there was no wool or structured lining to hide behind. This wasn’t a dress for a compromise. It was a dress for a confession.
April went silent.
Emerald silk skimmed her shoulders and fell clean to the floor. Sophisticated. Understated.
Undeniably feminine.
“Well,” April said slowly. “That’s illegal.”
“Stop.”
“You are not wearing navy.”
