The next day dawns crips and clear, the air buzzes with the fever of anticipation. Today marks the start of the first competition, and I can feel the weight of expectation pressing against my lip.
I refuse to let it shake me.
202
Standing before the full–length mirror, adjusting the deep emerald fabric that clings to my body like a second skin. The dress is exquisite–sleek, elegant, commanding attention without begging for it. It dips low at the back, exposing the smooth expanse of my spine, a contrast to the modest neckline that hints at mystery rather than indulgence. The fabric shimmers under the light, an almost liquid sheen that moves when I do.
“You’re going to dazzle everyone today,” my best friend says, stepping back to admire her work. She’s outdone herself with the styling–soft waves cascade down my shoulders, my makeup bold but precise, enhancing rather than masking. The look is one of effortless power, and I embrace it.
I breathe in deeply. “That’s the plan.”
She arches a brow. “Not meeting Raiden first?”
I shake my head, reaching for my clutch. “My phone’s dead–coffee accident last night. Besides, I’m sure he’ll manage.”
Her lips purse slightly, but she doesn’t press.
My assistant arrives promptly, guiding me into the sleek black car waiting outside. The city hums around us, but I barely notice the traffic, my mind already at the venue. By the time we pull up, I’m just on time.
Raiden stands at the entrance, arms crossed, his dark gaze scanning the crowd. He spots me immediately, his expression flickering from displeasure to something unreadable. His stance stiffens, and for a fraction of a second, he’s completely still.
And then the moment passes.
I step onto the pavement, and the reaction is almost instant. Conversations falter, eyes trail after me, admiration thick in the air. Flashbulbs flicker as reporters capture the moment. I can feel their silent approval, their whispered commentary–she looks stunning.
Raiden’s eyes darken. His jaw tightens as his gaze sweeps over the dress, lingering on the bare skin of my back. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and swings it over my shoulders, his grip firm. The scent of leather and cedarwood envelops
- me.
“This dress doesn’t meet Luna standards,” he mutters, his tone clipped.
I blink up at him. “Is that so?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he straightens, schooling his face into a picture of detached authority, and places a guiding hand on my back. His touch is warm, but his irritation radiates like a low–burning fire. The cameras love it–the perfect image of a devoted husband shielding his Luna from the world.
