Penelope Davis, a beautiful and innocent girl, was born and raised in a wealthy family. She had everything-caring parents and a supportive sister-except for the love of the man she adored. She believed she had him, until the day she discovered he ha...
(Hey my lovely readers, Firstly, I am sorry for the late update. And also the next week there won't be any update because your lovely writer not only writes book but also research paper so I have a deadline to submit my thesis and research paper so I am going to be very busy. So from now onwards the update will be quiet irregular but soon everything will be back to normal. I know you guys are little impatient about Sean's back story and I will drop little hint in upcoming chapter. Don't forget to like, comment and share.)
PENELOPE
I sat curled up by the window, staring out at nothing. The city's lights glittered faintly in the distance, but they felt far, cold, unreachable. Just like me.
The coffee in my hand had long gone lukewarm, the steam fading like the warmth in my chest. I took a sip anyway, trying to steady my heartbeat. It didn't work. My pulse still thudded-not from excitement, but from the weight of what today meant.
My wedding reception.
A celebration born out of contracts, loopholes, and lies.
The door swung open without a knock, and two women swept in like a gust of expensive perfume-stylists, perfectly polished, carrying racks of clothes and an arsenal of makeup tools.
"Ma'am, this is the dress Sir has chosen for you," one of them said with a polite smile, pulling out a pale pink ball gown, soft and princess-like.
It was beautiful. Off-shoulder, delicate, dreamy.
Sean's taste was impeccable.
Too bad it would go to waste.
I stood, tightening my bathrobe around me, and walked toward her. My fingers brushed over the fabric-it felt like touching a cloud. Gentle. Safe. Predictable.
Not me.
My gaze drifted past the dress to the rack behind her. And then I saw it. A floor-length gown that looked as if it had been spun from starlight. Beads shimmered in intricate, art-deco patterns, catching the light with a promise of danger. The corset-style bodice cinched the waist, delicate straps framing the shoulders. It was bold. Striking. The kind of dress that demanded a room to turn and look.
I touched it once, and I knew.
"I'll wear this," I said.
The stylist hesitated. "But ma'am, this is... too much."
I tilted my head, my voice calm but edged like glass. "Whose reception is it?" "Yours, ma'am."
"Then whether it's 'too much' or not is my decision. Your job is simply to get me ready."
From behind, Noelle -my maid-stifled a laugh.
"Yes, ma'am," the stylist murmured, and the transformation began.
An hour later, I stood before the mirror, and for once, I didn't just look like myself. I looked like the weapon I intended to be. The gown hugged every curve, sheer panels teasing glimpses of skin while still commanding elegance. My legs disappeared into golden stilettos; diamond studs gleamed at my ears. My makeup was war paint-eyes dripping in molten gold, lips a sharp, defiant red.
In my hand, a delicate bracelet winked with each movement, and a clutch rested at my side, hiding nothing more dangerous than lipstick.
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