Chapter 5:

The Charity Gala was forty-eight hours away, and the manor had transformed into a staging ground for a war of appearances. In the Solovino world, we didn't do "casual." We did statements.

I stood in the center of the grand dressing room, my arms outstretched like a crucifix as two tailors pinned a gown of emerald silk to my frame. The fabric was heavy, cold, and felt like a second skin—one I hadn't asked for.

"Don't move, Krystel," my father’s voice came from the doorway. He wasn't looking at my face; he was looking at the way the light hit the silk. "The emerald is perfect. It screams Solovino."

"It’s a charity gala, Father, not a coronation," I said, my voice tight as a tailor pulled a thread near my ribs.

"In this city, there is no difference," he replied, finally stepping into the room. He dismissed the tailors with a sharp flick of his wrist. They vanished instantly, leaving me standing on the velvet dais, half-pinned into a dress that cost more than a mid-sized house.

He walked around me, his eyes evaluating me the way he’d evaluate a closing argument. "I saw the Miller settlement. Clean. Sharp. You're becoming the woman I designed you to be."

"I thought I was your daughter, not your design."

He stopped in front of me, his gaze dropping to the gold snake ring on my finger. He reached out and adjusted it, turning the head of the snake until it was centered. "You are both. And because you are mine, you must be flawless. I cannot have people looking at you and seeing anything other than a Solovino."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that made the hair on my arms stand up. "There are rumors, Krystel. People think you’re... soft. They remember the incident with that girl, Sarah. They think you have a crack in your foundation."

I felt the air leave my lungs. "Sarah wasn't a crack. She was a person."

"She was a mistake," he corrected coldly. "One your brothers fixed. On Friday, you will stand on that stage and you will be the diamond. No cracks. No ghosts. If you fail to project the strength of this name, the consequences won't just be yours. They'll be the family's."

He patted my shoulder—a heavy,

 ownership-laden gesture—and walked out.

I stood there for a long time, trapped in the half-pinned emerald silk. I looked at my reflection in the three-way mirror. I looked like an empress. I looked like a goddess.

I looked like a girl who was about to scream.

I climbed down from the dais, carefully unzipping the unfinished dress and letting it puddle on the floor. I walked to the window, watching the sunset bleed over the estate's high stone walls.

I was twenty-four. I was at the top of my game. And I was being buried alive in emerald silk and "noble" expectations.

The annoying shadow my father promised hadn't arrived yet. The "Three-Year Summer" was still a distant storm on the horizon. But as I stood there in the quiet of the manor wondering what would happen next in this boring, cold and distant cage I am in.

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