My hands began to shake as I gently took the dress from her. I forced my smile, tried to keep the moment feeling normal, but my pulse was already pounding in my ears.
I slowly turned the dress inside out, careful not to damage it. The lining had been sewn back together neatly—too neatly. Like someone had opened it deliberately and stitched it closed again with care.
And there it was.
A small object wrapped in plastic, pressed flat against the inner seam. Not a label. Not padding. Something hidden intentionally.
A chill spread through my arms.
For a split second, I wanted to scream. I wanted to shove the dress back at my mother and demand answers in front of everyone so there’d be no pretending this was innocent.
But I didn’t.
I lifted my eyes and met my mother’s gaze. She was smiling—but it was tight, controlled. She was watching me closely, waiting. My father stood just behind her, expression blank, positioned perfectly to claim ignorance no matter what happened.
So I did the opposite of what they expected.
I smiled—warm, polite, appreciative.
“Thank you,” I said evenly. “It’s beautiful.”
