“Oh no,” she says. “This one will be even better.”
My stomach drops.
She sets the mug down and stands, smoothing her robe. “A team of hairstylists and makeup artists will arrive shortly to prepare you. We wouldn’t want to disappoint our guests.”
Her ominous words send fear prickling down my spine.
She leaves the kitchen without another word, heels clicking against the floor. The sound echoes long after she’s gone.
I turn toward Dominic, Beckett, and Zane, my stomach muscles clenching. “This is it,” I say quietly. My voice doesn’t shake, which surprises me. “This is Aria’s final play.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens. Zane exhales through his nose, already resigned. Beckett doesn’t say anything at first—just nods once, slow and grim.
“Yeah,” Beckett says finally. “It is.”
The doorbell rings less than ten minutes later.
They arrive in a wave of black rolling cases and neutral expressions, ushering us with polite efficiency like we’re late for something important. They tell us the men will be taken to one room, me to another.
Beckett steps forward. “No.”
Every head turns.
“I’m staying with her.”
There’s a pause. An uncomfortable one. They exchange looks, clearly unsure of how to handle resistance.
“She needs to be prepped,” one of them says carefully—a woman with brightly dyed pink hair and dramatic makeup.
“And she will be,” Beckett replies flatly. “With me present.”
Another look. Another silent calculation. In the end, they nod.
Spineless sheep, all of them. They don’t know what they’re a part of—just that Aria signs their checks.
Are they even members of POP? Doubt it.
They lead us into a large bedroom I’ve never entered before, flooded with light. Racks of clothing line one wall. A dress hangs front and center, pale and flowing, unmistakably chosen for symbolism rather than comfort.
As soon as they start fussing with it, Beckett scowls. “That color washes her out.”
One of the stylists hesitates. “This is what Ms. Aria requested.”
“That doesn’t make it flattering,” he says dryly.
I bite back a smile, despite the knot in my chest.
They murmur among themselves, clearly torn, before one of them shrugs. “We were instructed very specifically.”
Beckett rolls his eyes. “Of course you were.”
He doesn’t push further, though. He sighs and steps back, arms crossed, watching every move like a guard dog.
When they finish, I barely recognize myself. The dress fits perfectly—too perfectly. Like it was made with me in mind, notforme.
It’s a soft, bone-pale color—somewhere between ivory and ash—designed to look innocent until you notice how carefully everything is controlled. The material is light, almost weightless, layered chiffon that moves when I breathe, when I shift, when I exist. It doesn’t cling, but it doesn’t let me forget it’s there either.
The neckline is high and modest, sweeping just below my collarbones, all restraint and virtue. But the back is open, a long, elegant curve of exposed skin that feels deliberate. Long sleeves drape over my arms, sheer enough that my skin shows through, the cuffs fastening at my wrists as if to remind me I’m being kept, not adorned.
