Page 38 of Riot

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was breaking rules.

And maybe… just maybe, I wasn’t coming back.

Irina’s penthouse was everything I thought heaven should be and everything I had been denied. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened up to a city that never begged for permission to shine. The marble floors gleamed under a soft golden light that kissed every inch of the room. Sleek black furniture sat like sculptures, unapologetically modern, framed by curated art and towering bookshelves filled with design tomes, travel memoirs, and titles I hadn’t even heard of. A velvet couch lounged beneath a brass chandelier, and somewhere in the walls, the scent of vanilla musk whispered against my skin like a lover.

My mouth parted slightly as I took it all in.

The kitchen alone was larger than the bedroom I’d been confined to for a decade. The kind of kitchen built not just to cook—but to entertain, to laugh, to live in. And the walk-in wine bar? I didn’t even know where to look first. The ceiling glimmered. The walls shimmered. The whole damn space looked like it had been ripped from a movie scene. Frommymovie—the one that should’ve been mine if life had gone differently.

If my father hadn’t lost me.

If Boaz hadn’t stolen me.

If I hadn’t been erased.

“This way,” Irina said, kicking off her heels, already loosening her curls from the sleek ponytail they’d been twisted into.

There was an excitement in her step I couldn’t keep up with, but I followed anyway, past the living room, up a floating staircase so pristine it didn’t even creak. At the top, she opened the door to a master dressing suite that made my knees go soft.

It wasn’t a closet.

It was a cathedral.

Sunlight from the rooftop garden poured in through a full glass wall, warming the ivory rug and bouncing off a backlit mirror that could probably see into your soul. The scent in here was different—cleaner, more delicate, tinged with roses and cedarwood. Another scent of freedom.

And there, in the middle of the room, sat a garment rack.

“These are for you,” Irina said casually.

I froze.

Each piece was carefully hung—pressed, steamed, arranged by color. Rich crimsons, emeralds, midnight blue… and black. My size. Not the size someone thought I should be, but the size Iwas.As if she didn’t just want me to play dress up—but to feel beautiful in my own skin.

My throat tightened. I reached out, fingers brushing silk, velvet, crepe. There was nothing like this in the compound. There was nothing like this inmyworld.

And then I saw it.

A black blazer dress. Sleek, double-breasted, with a plunging neckline and padded shoulders. Gold buttons shimmered like moonlight on dark water. The fabric was structured, firm enough to hold its shape but soft enough to mold to every curve. The hem skimmed the thighs, tailored to give the illusion of legs for days, while the long sleeves added a sharp elegance.

This wasn’t just a dress.

This was a declaration.

I took it into the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind me. My hands shook as I unwrapped the robe I’d lived in for too long. It fell in a whisper to the floor, pooling like the ghost of the girl I used to be. I unpinned my hijab and let it slip off slowly, reverently, almost like shedding skin.

My reflection in the mirror looked… raw.

Exposed.

But free.

I stepped into the dress and adjusted the lapels. The fabric hugged me in all the right places. My breasts were full and high, cleavage peeking out unapologetically. My waist, softened by time and PCOS, curved gently into full hips and thick thighs. My belly wasn’t flat, but I didn’t care. I looked like awoman.

When I stepped into the Alaïa Cabaret heels—jet black with scalloped ankle straps and razor-thin stilettos—I felt taller. Stronger. Like every inch of me had purpose again. My walk changed. My posture changed. Hell, even my breathing changed.

I stepped out of the bathroom slowly.

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