Roisin
I hadn’t known what to expect.
But it certainly wasn’t this.
The dress Olivine had chosen for me was nothing short of scandalous. I stood there for a moment, stunned, unable to decide whether to laugh or scream. Slowly, I reached for it, lifting the delicate fabric from the silver platter with trembling hands. The material slipped through my fingers like liquid gold—soft, light, and far too revealing.
The dress was cut to expose more than it covered. The neckline plunged in a deep V, baring nearly all of my chest, while the slit on the side sliced high up my thigh, threatening to reveal everything with the wrong step. The back dipped scandalously low, just above the curve of my ass, held in place by little more than a fragile web of golden straps that crisscrossed over bare ski
