I turned my head in a daze and caught my reflection in the glass window.
A bunny-girl outfit. Every inch of it obscene.
Fuzzy rabbit ears on a headband, a skirt so sheer it was nearly transparent with a slit cut all the way to my waist, and a fluffy white pom-pom tail pinned just above my backside.
My bare back was a raw mess of torn flesh.
Alma let out a little "Oops," sticking her tongue out playfully. "I must've grabbed the wrong outfit. You won't blame me, will you, Damien?"
He froze for a split second, then patted the back of her hand. "You were in a rush. Mistakes happen. How could I ever blame you?"
"But won't the guests think I did it on purpose?" she murmured, pouting.
"They won't." His voice was certain. Then he seized my wrist and dragged me onto the stage.
My body had no strength left. I stumbled after him like a rag doll.
His steady voice carried through the microphone across the entire banquet hall. "Thank you all for attending my engagement party. This is my fiancée. She has a rather... bold sense of style, including her choice of clothing."
"I've always respected her preferences, and I'm sure distinguished guests like yourselves won't mind."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Rich people really do play different games. Marrying a woman like that into the family."
"What do you know? That's exactly the type that hooks a man. That waist, those curves... mm-mm."
"Don't be naive. A trophy like her is just for show. He'll still have his fun on the side."
Someone called out loudly, "Mr. Ashford, what happened to her back?"
He paused, slipped off his jacket, and draped it over my shoulders. "Just a bit of bedroom fun. Apologies for the eyeful."
The press section erupted. Every reporter looked like they could already see tomorrow's front page.
Shutters clicked in a relentless barrage, camera flashes merging into a solid wall of white light that burned my eyes shut.
I stood rigid on that stage, stripped bare in every way that mattered, with nowhere to hide under the weight of a thousand stares.
Somewhere in the roar of gossip and laughter,
a cold, mechanical voice cut through my skull.
[System upgrade progress: 99%.]
[Initiating countdown to world departure...]
The reporters finally cleared out. Damien hauled me into a back room, his expression black as a storm.
The first thing out of his mouth was an accusation. "When are these wounds going to heal? You're really getting addicted to this little act, aren't you?"
"Making it look like we owe you something. Did you do this on purpose?"
My voice came out hoarse. "Nobody owes anyone anything. Damien, we're even now."
"From here on out, we go our separate ways."
Damien's brow creased. He grabbed my wrist. "What do you mean, 'even'? What do you mean, 'separate ways'? Stop talking nonsense."
"The engagement is done. Once the wedding is over, you'll be Mrs. Ashford. Officially."
He paused. The jut of my wrist bone pressed sharp against his palm, and his tone softened a fraction.
"I won't treat you badly. You'll have the kind of wealth and status most people couldn't dream of in a lifetime."
I looked at him. The calm in my eyes unsettled him. "No..."
"Enough. Stop saying things you don't mean." He cut me off before I could finish, shooting to his feet. Something flickered behind his eyes, quick and panicked.
"I need to see to the guests. Clean up your wounds. And stop embarrassing me."
He tossed gauze and a bottle of antiseptic onto the table and slammed the door on his way out.
I didn't move.
I was leaving soon. Medicine or no medicine, what difference did it make.
I lay down on the cot and waited for the moment to come.
But someone couldn't let me have even that.
Alma shoved the door open, venom dripping from every word. "What are you playing dead for now?"
"Let me make one thing clear. No matter what stunts you pull, Damien will always choose me."
"So what if you marry him? Even when I'm the one who's wrong, he'll protect me just like he did out there and grind you under his heel."
I didn't bother opening my eyes.
