Iris
“You’re sure you can handle this?” Arthur asks, his hand resting on the small of my back. We’re standing just outside the ballroom entrance, about to make our reappearance.
I take a deep breath, smoothing the front of my new black dress. It’s simpler than the emerald gown—a sleek, form-fitting sheath with a high neck and tasteful slit up one side—but the fabric is luxurious, and it makes me feel powerful somehow. Like armor.
“Yes,” I confirm, lifting my chin.
Arthur offers me his arm, and I place my hand on it, holding my head high as we step back into the glittering ballroom. The effect is immediate—conversations falter, heads turn, eyes lock onto us. I can already hear the whispers rippling through the crowd.
“She’s back…”
“I heard they tore her dress to shre
