Does he ever think about how we used to be? Does he remember how my skin felt under his hands? Does he hate himself for those memories the way I sometimes hate myself for still cherishing them?
A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. I open the door to find Eliza, one of our newer maids, holding a garment bag with both hands like it might bite her.
"Miss Keira," she says, eyes downcast. "Mr. Ifrinn sent this for tonight. He insists that you wear it."
I take the bag. "Thank you, Eliza."
She hovers. "He… he said I'm to wait and make sure it fits properly."
My stomach tightens. "That won't be necessary."
"Please, Miss." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'll be in trouble if I don't follow his orders exactly."
I nod, understanding her position all too well. "Come in, then."
I slide the zipper down and pull back the protective covering. I close my eyes when I get the first glimpse of the garment. The dress, if you can call it that, is a brilliant crimson, the color of fresh blood. The fabric shimmers under the light, thin and clingy with a neckline that plunges dangerously low and a slit that reaches mid-thigh.
"He can't be serious."
Eliza says nothing, but her expression confirms what I already know. Phoenix is deadly serious.
I slip behind my dressing screen and shed the black dress I’d planned to wear. The red sheath slides over my skin like water, clinging and molding to every curve of my body. There's no room for undergarments, clearly by design.
When I step out, Eliza's eyes widen. "It's… striking, Miss Keira."
I turn to glimpse my reflection in the full-length mirror and gasp. The dress barely covers my backside. If I bend even slightly, everything will be on display. The neckline is so low my breasts threaten to spill out with each breath, and the fabric clings so tightly I can see every curve and contour of my body.
I look more like a mistress, not a fiancée. The red fabric makes my pale skin glow, my gray eyes appear almost silver. I look desirable, available, and utterly owned.
My first instinct is to rip it off, to tell Phoenix he can go to hell. I've endured enough humiliation.
“Why bother? I should just go naked.” I tug uselessly at the hem. "It's indecent. Please tell Mr. Ifrinn I need something else."
Eliza wrings her hands, her eyes darting nervously to the door. "Miss Keira, I can't. He was very specific. He said if you refused, I was to remind you that your parents' comfort depends on your cooperation."
“Did he say that exactly?"
"Yes, Miss. And…" She hesitates. "He said to tell you that this is what happens when you behave like a whore—you dress like one."
I close my eyes, understanding washing over me with sickening clarity. This isn't just about control. It's about humiliation. He wants to parade me in front of his brothers and associates like some trophy, a symbol of the Keans' fall from grace.
I don’t want my parents to die, but neither do I feel it’s my responsibility to save them. They are where they are because of their choices. If the situations were reversed, they wouldn’t think twice about having Phoenix kill me. After all, they’d handed me over to him to try and save themselves.
But I have to think of Brigit. He could threaten her. For her, I’ll endure any humiliation.
"I see." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Thank you for being honest, Eliza."
I stare at my reflection again, seeing Phoenix's strategy for what it is. Another power play. Another reminder that I am at his mercy. He thinks I'll beg and plead to wear something else. More than that, he hopes to see me break under the demeaning stares of his guests.
But I won't give him that satisfaction. If he wants to dress me like a conquest, I'll wear his scarlet dress. But I won't wear the shame he's trying to drape over me.
"You can tell Mr. Ifrinn the dress fits perfectly." I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. "And that I'll be down shortly."
I straighten my shoulders, watching my reflection harden with resolve.
I descend the staircase one deliberate step at a time, my hand gliding along the polished banister, my chin lifted. He can take everything except my dignity. Granted, in this dress, that assertion is being challenged, but I’ll fight tooth and nail to retain my self-respect.
I step into the large living area where the guests have gathered. The conversation quiets as I appear, and I feel every eye turn toward me. My skin burns under their scrutiny, but I force myself to keep moving, to keep my chin lifted despite the heat crawling up my neck.
