Nevara
Michelle was halfway into a midnight-blue gown when I saw it—the one I hadn’t known I was looking for.
She stood in front of the mirror, examining the plunging neckline like it owed her money, one leg c****d through the high slit with confidence only born from bloodline and battle training. “Thoughts?” she asked, posing like the cover of a fashion magazine run by assassins.
“I mean, if the goal is to make every man at the wedding weep and confess their sins—nailed it.”
She grinned. “Here’s to hoping I could turn gay men into bisexuals.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that works.” I stated flatly.
Mom chuckled softly from her seat near the fitting room. The dress she was trying had a soft rose gold hue and elegant off-the-shoulder sleeves—classic, refined, and perfect for her.
