Page 51 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

I came out and did a small turn.

Octavia made a considering sound.

Rafe studied me long enough that warmth crawled up my neck. “That’s quite stylish.”

I lifted my brows. “But?”

“But it’s too outdated to read as current and too recent to read as vintage. It occupies an unfortunate valley.”

“An unfortunate valley?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“I’m wearing the uncanny valley of dresses?”

His lips twitched. “Essentially.”

Octavia snapped her fingers. “Exactly. It’s giving divorced gallery owner at a silent auction in 2014. Not what we’re looking for.”

The next one was red and dramatic, with a slit that made me feel powerful for approximately three seconds before I remembered I would need to sit down at some point. When I stepped out, Rafe’s expression became impossible to read again. His attention moved over the dress, then to my face, then away.

Octavia hummed. “Well?”

Rafe cleared his throat. “The cut is strong.”

“Strong good?” I asked.

“Noticeable.”

“Those are not necessarily the same thing.”

“No.”

I looked down. “Too much?”

“For this event, yes,” he said. “It draws attention before it gives anyone a reason to listen to you.”

I looked at him too quickly.

For one suspended moment, the shop settled around us: the warm lights, the crowded racks, Octavia’s satisfied smile, Max’s steady breathing. Rafe’s gaze held mine with that same unreadable intensity, as if there was something he’d chosen not to say, and the silence had weight because of it.

My stomach dipped.

Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe he wasn’t charmed or curious. Maybe I was a problem he’d bought himself with one badly timed boon, and now he was stuck trying to polish me until I embarrassed him as little as possible. Maybe the thing he was holding back was distaste.

I’d dealt with distaste before.

“All right,” I said, too brightly, turning to the dressing room. “Next contestant. Let’s find something that says, ‘I can discuss repatriation law and also know which fork to use.’”

Octavia’s voice softened by one careful degree. “We’ve got you, darling.”

And because Octavia had known me for years, because she’d watched me buy interview blazers with grocery money and then pretend I was delighted to eat lentils for a week, I ducked behind the curtain before my face could show my thoughts.

The fourth dress didn’t look like much at first.

On the hanger, it was deep plum, almost black until the light hit it at the right angle. The bodice was simple, the sleeves sheer but not fussy, the train long enough to be formal without suggesting I’d escaped from a period drama. It had tiny beadwork around the cuffs and collar, subtle as starlight if starlight had passed a bar exam.

The tag inside made my eyebrows climb.