A small object wrapped in plastic, pressed flat against the inner seam. Not a label. Not padding. Something hidden intentionally.

A chill spread through my arms.

For a split second, I wanted to scream. I wanted to shove the dress back at my mother and demand answers in front of everyone so there’d be no pretending this was innocent.

But I didn’t.

I lifted my eyes and met my mother’s gaze. She was smiling—but it was tight, controlled. She was watching me closely, waiting. My father stood just behind her, expression blank, positioned perfectly to claim ignorance no matter what happened.

So I did the opposite of what they expected.

I smiled—warm, polite, appreciative.

“Thank you,” I said evenly. “It’s beautiful.”

My mother let out a quiet breath, like she’d been holding it. “Of course,” she said lightly. “We just want Emma to feel special.”

I folded the dress carefully, keeping the lining hidden inside, and placed it back into the gift bag as if nothing was wrong.

Emma watched me, confused, but she trusted my expression. She returned to her cake and candles, and I kept the party moving with a calm I didn’t feel.