The sound of fists hitting the training pads echoes through the gym, sharp and rhythmic. My breath comes fast, my palms slick inside the gloves as I pivot, keeping my guard up.
Across from me, Imani moves with quick, precise steps—cool, calm, like she has been born with fight in her blood. I like sparring with her. Imani never goes easy, never treats me like I don't belong in this ruthless world.
But today, something feels...off.
We are mid-combo—jab, hook, dodge—when Imani suddenly steps back, lowering her hands.
"Wait—what?" I frown, sweat dripping along my hair. "Why are we stopping?"
Imani peels off the pads. "We are done for today."
"That's it?" I tug at my gloves, chest still rising and falling fast. "What about the threat that you are gonna throw me on my ass?"
Imani shrugs. "Some other day." She sits down and grabs her water bottle.
I toss the gloves onto the rack and ask her. "But why?"
She smirks faintly. "You'll know why...when you go to your room."
I am totally confused and blinking. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You'll see." She stands up, already walking away, her braid swinging behind her.
I take a deep breath, my pulse still high from the fight—not sure if it is the sparring or the way Iman has just dropped that cryptic little bomb.
I made my way back to my room; I have convinced myself it is probably nothing. Maybe a message. Maybe Lucien has finally decided to finish our chessboard, or maybe he allows me to go out whenever I want to—though that is wishful thinking.
But when I push open the door, there is a beautiful gown resting on the bed.
Not just a gown—a showstopper. It is emerald green, the kind of green that captures everyone's attention and holds it. It looks shimmery and subtle under light, like it has been spun from glass and shadows. It is cut to hug every curve of my body, strapless, with a deep heart neckline that dips just enough to tease.
But to tease: who?
The skirt is flowy from the waist, not too wide, but with just enough movement that I can imagine it trailing behind me as I walk. And the slit—God, the slit, starting mid-thigh and promising a flash of leg with every step.
Black pair of heels with razor-thin stilettos, with delicate straps. I am sure when I lace up my ankles, it will look like something wicked, pretending to be sweet.
There is a small velvet box. Inside, a set of drop earrings, white gold and emerald stones, the green so deep it almost looks black until the light hits. Matching bracelet. No necklace; the dress doesn't need it.
I brush my fingers against the gown, thinking it's too damn fancy for dinner.
Then I see the note.
One line. 10:30 p.m.
I furrowed my brow. That is...too late for dinner.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Not because I am thrilled to play dress-up, but because this is so him. No explanation. No request. Just...an order wrapped in glamour.
I pick up the gown and turn towards the mirror. The green makes my eyes stand out. It deepens them and sharpens them. For a moment, I almost don't recognize the woman staring back. And then it clicks.
This isn't just a dress.
My instincts are screaming. It is armor.
Not the kind made of Kevlar or steel, but the kind that makes you dangerous in a different way. It is temptation, tailored to weaponize me.
Something shifts inside me, equal parts excitement and unease. I don't know which one is louder. I put the gown back on the bed, and the heels glint like they know a secret, a big secret. The bracelet feels heavy in my palm.
Whatever tonight is, it isn't just dinner.
I am standing in front of the mirror, realizing that I am no more Anaya Brooks, who was betrayed by her people and left to rot in prison. Now I am already bracing for a fight—just not the kind I have been training for with Imani.
A knock rattles my door, but before I can answer it, the door swings open. Clara slips in, followed by Beatrice. Clara's hair is pulled up in a messy bun, still damp from a shower, and Beatrice has that curious look she always wears when she smells gossip.
"Holy hell," Clara says, stopping short. "What is that?" She points at the gown like it may start breathing on its own.
Beatrice steps closer, her brows rising. "Yeah, spill it. Why does it look like you are about to attend a royal wedding or seduce a devil king?"
I smirk, looking between both. "Maybe both."
"Don't mess with us," Clara says, leaning against the bedpost. "This is way too fancy for a dinner with Lucien."
Instead of answering, I reach over to the comforter and pick up the folded cream-colored paper. I hold it up between two fingers.
"Everything came with this." I tell them.
Beatrice steps forward and snatches it from my hand. "10:30 p.m.," she reads aloud, her tone laced with disbelief. "That's it? No explanation, no instructions, I mean, nothing at all."
"Not even a little heart or smiley face?" Clara adds, giving a small snort.
I shrug. "You both know him more than I."
Clara shoots me a look. "And 'him' would he be?"
A question clicks in my head. Fuck, do they even know about the dinners I have with Lucien? Alone. Or that was supposed to be a secret. But what could be the reason to keep this useless thing a secret?
Before I open my mouth, Beatrice crosses her arms. She shifted her weight onto one hip. "You realize that's in—" She checks the wall clock. "—less than four hours, right?"
"Yeah," I run a hand through my hair. "Guess I should run into the bathroom for a quick shower and then start getting ready."
Clara gives me a wink and a quick kiss. "I think you should take a long bath, including scrubbing and shaving."
I stare at Clara. "Don't overthink; I am sure it will be a simple dinner."
Beatrice laughs. "If it is dinner, I am betting the menu comes with a side of trouble."
We all burst into laughter. They hang around for a bit, trading theories while I lay the accessories out on the vanity. I don't say it aloud, but I don't know why I am feeling so excited from inside, thinking if tonight Lucien will go one step further after dinner.
Clara nudges Betrice toward the door. "Alright, we'll leave you to your...whatever this is. Just—" She points at me. "Remember, you are obligated to play dirty because the dress is evil."
"Noted," I say, tucking the note back beside the gown.
When the door clicks shut, I look at the clock, and my heart starts pounding; my gut feeling is saying something I am unable to understand.
10:30 is coming fast, and I am not sure which part of me is more awake, the one that wants to know or the one that wants to run.