And by the next morning, my parents wouldn’t stop calling…
because they knew I’d found it.
My phone started buzzing before I even poured my coffee.
One missed call. Then another. Then a text from my mother:
Did Emma try it on?
Call me.
It’s important.
I gripped my mug so tightly I felt heat through the ceramic. Important. The word sat there like a perfumed lie.
I didn’t respond. The screen lit up again—this time with my father’s name.
Please pick up.
They never called this much for birthdays. They didn’t call like this when Emma was sick. They didn’t call like this when I begged them to respect her as a person instead of a possession.
But now? Now they were frantic.
Because whatever they’d hidden in that dress was never supposed to be discovered.
Continue on the next page:
