Page 28 of Summoned
Two hours later, I step out of the fitting room in the mall, wrapped in a bold merlot gown by Elisabetta Franchi. The color speaks of refinement, while the daring neckline and bold slit baring my thigh scream confidence. Even before I glance in the mirror, I know the fabric clings to my body like a perfect shell.
And yet, everything inside me remains tight, drawn inward.
Boyana lets out a soft gasp as I emerge. “Stupefying!”
“Seriously.” Misha nods, her black curls bouncing. “Red is totally your color. With that hair? Full-on vampire vibes.”
I spin around. “Vampire vibes? What are you, thirteen?”
Her lips part in some inane attempt at explanation, but I’m not interested. My attention slides down to my reflection, following the line of my hips beneath the crimson fabric, then down my legs. I press my lips together, the thought biting at me: in three weeks, I could lose everything. My belongings. My opportunities. My plans.
“Oh my God, it’s so perfect! Ideal for the Deliberovs’ ball,” Boyana chirps, still glowing with excitement.
I might face the potential end of my life, but for Boyana and the twins, the upcoming ball is the only thing that matters.
The Deliberovs are influential, wealthy, and renowned for hosting events that go beyond social niceties. These are stages, curated by ambitious mothers who parade their daughters like rare and precious gems, hoping to attract the right suitor.
“Maybe I’ll wear a potato sack to the Deliberov ball,” I mutter.
Boyana frowns. “What do you mean?”
There’s no way I’m telling them about my mother’s deranged ambition to marry me off to the Deliberovs’ son.
The curtain to the next fitting room pulls aside, and Marie steps out in a gown of royal blue satin that seems to choke every curve of her body. The design caters to a more slender physique.
“Damn, girl!” Boyana exclaims. “That is hot.”
Misha makes an approving hand gesture. “With those Manolos? Total knockout.”
Boyana blows Marie a kiss. “Every guy there is gonna lose his mind. Guaranteed.”
I cast a sidelong glance at the blue gown, with its straining seams. “The dress is lovely, darling. A truly bold choice,” I say, smooth and soft, then return my attention to my reflection.
Marie takes a step toward me. “What do you mean by that, Nicole? Do you like it or not?”
“Oh, it’s just that… that particular dress works best on someone with longer legs. Someone like me. Or Boyana.”
Marie’s lips press into a tight line. The truth is never pleasant, but it’s necessary. If I don’t say it, she’ll waltz into the party in that ill-suited dress, yet another victim of the sugar-sweet lies her sister and Boyana dispense without effort.
“I’m not trying to offend you, sweetheart,” I continue, my tone calm and even. “I just think there might be betteroptions for your body type. Of course, if you feel good in it… That’s what matters.”
Cruel? Perhaps. But it’s honest. And who wants a friend who buries them in niceties while they walk into public humiliation?
Besides, I have to use every opportunity to remind the hyenas of their place. To make sure they don’t forget who is above them—and why. Who knows, one of them might suddenly get the idea of becoming queen. I can’t risk ending up beneath anyone in any sense of the word. That’s the first step toward handing over power.
“I’m definitely getting this one.” I pat my hip with my palm and disappear into the fitting room.
Even when I’m back in front of the mirror, dressed in a gown that screams bold elegance, my fingers tremble. I reach for the zipper and slide it down; the dress slips over my skin like silk. The nightmare from last night resurfaces —rabbit ears, a collar, a wall with the word “BUNNY” struck out across it. I shake my head, but it doesn’t erase the memory.
I hold the dress against my chest. My eyes flick to the corners of the tiny fitting room. I’m alone. The air remains still. Buthismagic doesn’t follow the rules of logic. All it took was one flick of his hand to send me into a world where voices are trapped in glass vials.
My pulse races, and I tighten my grip on the thin fabric. He might be hiding in the shadows.
I bite my lip, palms sweating, and quickly pull on my shorts and T-shirt.
* * *
By the time evening rolls around, I’m pacing my room, aheadache forming at my temples.The thought finally settles in my mind as a quiet, irrefutable truth: the Black Joker is real.
