(Sanya’s POV)
The dress arrives at six o'clock sharp.
Three servants carry it like it's made of glass, laying it carefully across my bed while I watch from the corner. The garment bag comes off and I feel my stomach drop.
It's worse than I remembered.
White silk and lace, yes. But up close, I can see the full horror of what Tyron's chosen. The collar rises high enough to choke. The sleeves puff at the shoulders like something from a historical drama. Layers upon layers of lace and pearl beading catch the light, and the train—Creator help me, the train stretches at least six feet behind the skirt.
I look like I'm going to a Renaissance fair. Not a modern pack reception.
"It's beautiful, Luna." One of the servants—a girl barely older than me—runs her fingers over the fabric with revere
