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The dress fits me perfectly, like it was tailored to my body, the deep red silk hugging my curves, the intricate beading catching the dim light of my bedroom.
It makes me look expensive. Like someone who belongs at a charity ball.
Which is exactly what I don’t want.
So I do the only thing that makes sense—I skip the makeup, throw my hair into a messy ponytail, and put on my sneakers.
It’s petty, childish, and not at all a real protest—but it’s something.
If Damien Zaitsev thinks he can make me feel like I belong in his world, he’s got another thing coming.
With that thought, I straighten my shoulders and walk out.
The second I step back into the living room, Melanie’s mouth drops open.
Damien?
He just smirks.
His eyes trail over me slowly, from the way the dress clings to my body all the way down to my feet.
Then—he holds out his arm.
Like it’s not up for debate.
Like he never even considered me saying no.
I hesitate.
For exactly three seconds.
His muscles flex slightly under my fingers, and just that simple touch sends a shiver up my spine.
As we walk toward the door, I sigh. “I look hideous.”
Damien chuckles, low and deep. “You look like an angel.”
15
SASHA
The ballroom isstunning in a way that makes my brain short-circuit. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high, arched ceilings, casting a warm golden glow over the polished marble floors. Towering floral arrangements sit on each table, the scent of fresh roses and something expensive and elusive lingering in the air.
Waiters in crisp black suits weave through the crowd, carrying silver trays of champagne. A live orchestra plays in the background, soft classical music blending seamlessly with the hum of conversation.
And then there’s the people.
High society in all its glory.
The women are practically glowing, draped in designer gowns, their hair styled in sleek, elegant waves or intricate updos that probably took three professionals and a prayer to accomplish. Diamonds glint at their throats, sapphires on their wrists, jewelry worth more than my student loans.
The men are just as polished—tailored suits, silk ties, expensive cologne. Everything about them screams old money, private jets, and bathrooms made of gold.
And then there’s me.
Standing in my perfectly fitted gown…with sneakers.
I knew skipping makeup was a mistake the second we walked in.