A custom black satin dress with a slit up the side. The one he had tailored for me last year after we survived the warehouse bombing. He gave it to me wrapped in silver paper, whispering, "Only death could outshine you in this."
It wasn’t hanging anymore.
What I found instead—crumpled in the back corner—was a crime scene.
My dress was torn to shreds. Like someone took a blade to it. Fabric slashed, straps ripped, one side of the bodice almost shredded down the seam. Red lipstick smeared across the chest—mocking, messy, deliberate.
My heels were gone. My earrings? Snapped in half.
Not an accident. Not a mistake.
Zoraya did this.
I stormed out, fists clenched, the ruined gown balled up in my arms. My voice was shaking, but I still spoke.
“What the hell is this?”
And there she was. Already dressed. Black velvet. Tight. Expensive. Sleeves draped off the shoulders. She looked like a widow at a funeral she planned herself.
Zeus stood behind her, zipping her up like she was fragile. Like he was hers. She turned slowly when she saw me. Smiled. That soft, sugary smile that always came right before the knife.