The dress was a problem before I left the apartment.
Black. High neck. Slit to the thigh, because the gala was his money and my scholarship and I still had to look like a girl who belonged in the room. Under it, nothing. I had stood in the bathroom with a thong in my hand and his text in my head. If you need to come again before Friday, you ask me first. I had not asked. I had also not come. Two days of the ache, meaner for the denial, and the thong felt like a lie I would sweat through. I left it on the sink.
Reece texted once. Save me a seat if you still sit. I did not answer. Graham did not text at all. That was worse. Silence from the man who had called my cunt pretty and then set a fee on it.
The ballroom was gold and too loud. Donors. A string quartet. My name on a card at a table
