Anya’s POV
The next night, I stood in front of my mirror way longer than necessary. I kept fixing tiny things—brushing out imaginary lint, adjusting my dress strap, patting down my hair even though it was already smooth. My nerves wouldn’t sit still.
I had chosen a long black dress. Simple, but elegant enough for a charity event. It hugged my waist and flowed down, not too dramatic. My hand still hurt a little, so I avoided bracelets. I slipped on small silver earrings, hoping they made me look like someone who belonged beside a powerful CEO.
When I finished, I grabbed my purse, turned off the lights, and inhaled deeply.
“Please don’t let tonight be a disaster,” I whispered to myself.
I left the apartment. The hallway felt unusually quiet, like it was watching me leave. Kennedy still
