If Celia weren't malicious and self-centered, Penelope would've admitted the woman to be beautiful. Yet something about her aura oozed with iniquity, morphing her features into something unbearable.
Her presence instantly claimed the room, her mask not enough to hide her true identity. Her gown was a vision of calculated extravagance, fashioned from layers of pale lilac silk so fine it seemed to float rather than fall. The bodice clung with deliberate precision, embroidered in silver thread that curled into delicate floral patterns that caught the light. The neckline dipped just enough to suggest allure without impropriety, adorned with a string of perfectly matched pearls that gleamed against her skin while the skirts flared gracefully from her waist, cascading in soft, rippling folds.
