If life had a soundtrack, mine would've been a mix of horror movie violins and a clown's honk-honk horn.
Because here I was, in front of a cracked mirror, debating whether the dress I was squeezing into made me look like a tragic princess,a bankrupt Disney villain or a girl about to be sold like discount furniture on Facebook Marketplace.
If someone had told me six months ago that I'd be standing in front of a cracked mirror, wearing a dress that looked like it crawled out of a 2005 prom catalogue and died halfway, I would have laughed. Or cried. Or both.
Instead, I adjusted the spaghetti strap digging into my shoulder, tilted my head and muttered to myself,
"Well, Serena, you've officially become one of those tragic before-pictures people post on TikTok."
The mirror didn't disagree.
The satin was cheap, the color a weird shade between wine red and cough syrup, and the zipper at the back was threatening to commit suicide. My curls, which I'd attempted to tame with exactly one bobby pin and blind optimism, exploded around my face like I'd licked an electrical socket.
"Sexy," I said to no one. "If the goal is to attract a desperate divorcee with a bad hip and cholesterol meds."
But tonight wasn't about me picking anyone. No. Tonight was about my dear, loving Uncle Charles auctioning me off like a fancy cow to pay his gambling debts. Romantic, right?
I tugged at the hem of the dress again. Too short. Too tight. Too… look at me, I come with free tragedy and daddy issues.
I tried a spin, then winced. My reflection winced back. The scar at the small of my back peeked out just above the zipper. It was a pale, ugly reminder that I wasn't exactly showroom quality. Not that I cared. Scars were badass. The kind of thing heroines had in movies. Except heroines didn't usually end up sold to the highest bidder in some underground auction where the menu was people.
"Lift your chin," I muttered to myself, trying to arrange my hair so it covered the scar on my lower back. Not because I cared much about appearances but because scars tell stories. And mine wasn't bedtime-story material.
I sighed dramatically, flopped onto my bed, and whispered,
"If Cinderella had this dress, the fairy godmother would've been sued for negligence."
The door creaked open without so much as a knock. Classic Uncle Charles. Privacy was apparently a myth in his world.
"Serena." Uncle Charles' voice drawled.
I didn't need to turn to know he was leaning on the doorframe like he thought he was a James Bond villain. Pfft, he wasn't. More like if James Bond got old, balding, and invested all his money in whiskey and bad cologne.
I sat up slowly, plastering on my best sarcastic smile.
"Wow. You actually knocked this time. Someone call the Guinness World Records."
He ignored that, his beady eyes scanning me up and down.
" You're not wearing that," he sneered, his eyes crawling over me like cockroaches. His gaze lingered far too long on places that made my skin itch. Then he smirked. "That scar. It'll ruin your price."
I turned slowly, plastering on my brightest fake smile. "Oh, thank you for the fashion advice, Uncle Creepshow. I was really going for runway chic, not damaged goods clearance sale."
He narrowed his eyes, not sure if I was joking or insulting him.
His eyes snapped to mine, cold and irritated. "Change. Something longer. Something… cleaner."
"Cleaner?" I tilted my head, innocent smile plastered. "What do you want me to wear, Uncle Charles? A nun's habit? Maybe a hazmat suit? Ooh, or I could show up in one of those inflatable dinosaur costumes. That would really distract from the scar."
For half a second, I swear he looked thrown off. Then his lip curled.
"Don't play games with me, girl. Wear the blue one in the closet. Now."
I followed his gaze to the hideous navy dress hanging limply like a dead fish. Floor-length. Sleeves. Basically a portable coffin.
I stood, brushing past him with exaggerated dramatics. "Fine. Blue it is. Let's look like someone's sad church usher."
The closet door creaked open, and I tugged the dress free, glaring at it like it was my mortal enemy.
"Tell me, Uncle," I said sweetly, "when you sell me tonight, do I get a complimentary gift basket? Chocolates? A toaster? Or maybe just a pat on the head and a 'thanks for saving my gambling problem, champ'?"
He stiffened. I smirked. Score one for Serena.
I wriggled out of the red dress, muttering to myself like a deranged infomercial host.
"New and improved Serena! Now with 100% less scar visibility and 200% more funeral chic!"
The navy gown slid on like cold water. Modest neckline, long sleeves, the works. Honestly, if anyone at the auction had a fetish for depressed widows, I'd be the jackpot.
When I stepped back out, I twirled with mock grace.
"Ta-da! What do you think? Perfect balance between Victorian ghost and overworked librarian?"
Charles' jaw tightened. "Better."
"Better," I echoed, deadpan. "Yes. Nothing screams 'buy me' like a girl who looks like she'll recommend a good Bible verse while serving tea."
"You'll change. Wear something darker. Hide it." His tone was final.
I gave him a mock salute. "Aye aye, Captain Debt Collector."
And because I was me chronically incapable of shutting up when I should, I added, "By the way, do you practice that evil-uncle glare in the mirror, or does it come naturally? Because it's very Disney original movie."
His hand twitched, like he wanted to hit me. Instead, he muttered, "Be ready in ten." and stormed out.
He grunted and slammed the door on his way out, which I counted as a win.
The second the door shut, I collapsed onto the bed again, staring at the ceiling. My heart was racing not because of him, but because of the quiet.
I whispered into the emptiness,
"Serena, tonight your life officially turns into a bad Netflix thriller."
A laugh bubbled out of me, sharp and humorless. I pressed my palms against my face, then let them slide off.
I could already feel it in my bones. Tonight wasn't going to be just another one of Charles' schemes. No. Something darker was waiting.
With a dramatic sigh, I peeled off Dress #2 and shuffled through the pathetic wardrobe of options. Darker dress? Fine. But if this circus of a night was my grand debut into misery, I was at least going to look hot while doing it.
As I zipped up the replacement dress, tighter, darker, scar-hidden, I caught my own reflection again. My eyes looked too big for my face, almost like they knew something I didn't.
And then it hit me. A chill, sharp as a knife between the ribs.
My uncle thought tonight was about settling his debts.
But deep down, I knew my night was only getting weirder.