The dress arrived the next morning.
Emma was in the library, reading a book she couldn't concentrate on, when a knock came at the door. A servant she didn't recognize stood in the hallway, a garment bag draped over his arm.
"From Mr. White," he said. "He asked that you wear this tonight."
Emma took the bag and closed the door.
She unzipped it slowly, her fingers trembling.
The dress was crimson.
Not red. Not burgundy. Crimson… the color of blood, of warning, of stoplights at the scene of an accident. It was silk, floor length, backless, with a slit that ran to the hip. It was the kind of dress that made a statement without saying a word.
There was a note pinned to the collar.
Wear this when you're ready to remind them who you are.
Emma pressed the note to her chest and felt something she hadn't felt in sixteen years.
Power.
She dressed slowly, carefully, like a warrior preparing for battle. The silk slid over her skin like armor. The color made her look dangerous, untouchable, alive.
When she walked into the living room, Nicholas was waiting.
He was dressed in a black suit, shirt, and a tie with a single silver cufflink at each wrist. His hair was slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven, his eyes dark and hungry.
He looked at her for a long, breathless moment.
"You're going to cause a riot," he said.
"Good."
He offered his arm. "Ready?"
Emma took it. "Let's go remind them."