Alyssa stood before her wardrobe, fingers trailing over silk and satin like a general selecting armor for battle. The morning light streaming through her balcony doors caught the golden threads woven through a deep emerald dress—one of the few garments she'd brought from her father's compound that still felt like her. Not the costumes Valerio's seamstress had delivered, all pastels and demure necklines designed to make her look like a porcelain doll.
She pulled the emerald dress from its hanger, the fabric whispering against her skin as she held it up to the mirror. The color made her pale green eyes appear almost luminous, and the cut emphasized the curves she'd learned to weaponize during her time as Captain Hardy's daughter. This dress said princess. It said power. It said I have money and you will respect me.
Perfect.
