Chapter 09

Emery Quinn

By the time Layla arrived, I was already knee-deep in existential dread—and my closet.

The afternoon light streaming through my bedroom window had shifted from gold to amber, casting long shadows across the chaos I'd created. Clothes were strewn across every surface: draped over the unmade bed, hanging from the back of my desk chair, pooled on the hardwood floor like fabric casualties of war.

"Why do I own nothing remotely fun?" I muttered, yanking a hanger to the side for what had to be the fourth time. The metal scraped against the rod with a sound that perfectly matched my fraying nerves. "How does one person own twelve cardigans and still feel cold?"

I stared at my clothes like they'd personally betrayed me, each piece a testament to the careful, colorless life I'd built around myself. The hangers seemed to mock me as they swayed slightly from my frustrated movements, displaying a wardrobe that screamed responsibility and whispered nothing about desire.

Every piece felt like a variation of the same safe, muted theme: blouses in beige or navy that could pass any corporate dress code, a few worn jeans with frayed hems that had seen better days, some too-formal work pants that made me look like I was perpetually heading to a board meeting, and that one red dress I kept for interviews and never actually wore. It hung there like a forgotten promise, the price tag still attached from two years ago.

Nothing sparkled. Nothing screamed "I'm hot and I know it." Nothing even whispered it.

And definitely nothing said I'm walking into a club like I belong there.

The mirror on my dresser reflected back a woman I barely recognized—not because I looked different, but because I looked exactly the same as I had for months. Tired eyes, pulled-back hair, the kind of pallor that came from too many hours under fluorescent office lighting. When had I become so beige? When had I started disappearing into my own life?

I flopped onto the edge of my bed with a groan, the mattress springs protesting under the sudden weight. A pile of rejected outfits slid to the floor beside me, and I didn't even have the energy to care. "Maybe if I fake being sick, Layla will leave me alone."

The thought was tempting. I could already picture it: texting her that I'd come down with something sudden and mysterious, promising to reschedule for next weekend, then spending the evening in my pajamas with takeout and whatever mindless show I could find to drown out the silence. It would be safe. Predictable. Exactly what I'd been doing every weekend for the past few months.

As if summoned by guilt—or maybe she had some kind of sixth sense about my cowardly thoughts—my phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Layla: "I'm outside, and if you're not halfway dressed by the time I get upstairs, I swear to God, Emery—"

I laughed despite myself, the sound hollow in the quiet apartment. Of course she was early. Layla operated on her own timeline, one that seemed to run about fifteen minutes ahead of the rest of the world and twice as fast as my own sluggish existence.

"Of course she's early."

I could picture her downstairs, probably tapping her foot against the lobby floor, checking her reflection in the building's glass doors, radiating the kind of impatient energy that could power a small city. The mental image made me smile.

A minute later, my front door swung open like a storm had blown in from the hallway.

Layla stood in the doorway like a goddess in designer sneakers—tight black jeans that hugged her curves like they'd been painted on, a silver halter top that shimmered under the hallway lights and caught every movement of her breathing, and her dark hair piled into a messy but intentional bun that had probably taken her twenty minutes and three YouTube tutorials to perfect. Her makeup was flawless, her confidence absolute, and she looked like she belonged anywhere she chose to be.

She took one look at me—barefaced, drowning in oversized sweatpants, and surrounded by a battlefield of discarded clothes—and sighed so dramatically I almost applauded. The sound carried the weight of years of friendship, disappointment, and loving exasperation.

"Oh, honey. You're hopeless."

I flung a sock at her, which she dodged with practiced ease. "I told you I wasn't going."

"And yet," she said, stepping inside and dropping her oversized designer bag onto my couch with the kind of casual confidence that suggested she owned the place, "here I am. With your solution."

The bag landed with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. I felt my stomach drop slightly, recognizing the tone in her voice. It was the same tone she'd used in college when she'd convinced me to sneak out of the dorms, when she'd talked me into applying for internships I thought were too good for me, when she'd pushed me toward every good decision I'd been too scared to make on my own.

I blinked, suddenly wary. "What solution?"

She unzipped the bag with a grin that screamed danger, her movements deliberate and theatrical. The zipper's metallic song seemed to fill the room as she reached inside, and I found myself holding my breath without knowing why.

And then she pulled it out.

The dress.

It emerged from the bag like something out of a fairy tale—if fairy tales were written by someone with very adult intentions. The fabric caught the light, revealing depths of black that seemed to shift between matte and shimmer depending on the angle.

I blinked again, my mouth suddenly dry. "Layla."

"Ta-da!" She held it up like a trophy, her grin widening at what must have been the expression of pure terror on my face.

"Layla, no."

"It's perfect."

"It's tiny."

"It's flattering."

"It's barely legal."

She held it up against me, ignoring my protests with the determination of someone who'd clearly planned this ambush. The fabric was silky black, with thin straps that would rest delicately on my shoulders, a neckline that plunged in a way that suggested rather than revealed, and a hemline that clearly didn't believe in gravity or modesty. It was the kind of dress that required confidence I wasn't sure I possessed, the kind that transformed whoever wore it into someone entirely different.

"Girl, I'm not wearing that."

Layla didn't even flinch, her expression remaining serenely determined. "You say that every time I hand you a dress. And every time, I'm right."

"I have organs, Layla. Important ones. Where will they go?"

The question came out more panicked than I'd intended, and she laughed—a rich, delighted sound that filled the apartment with warmth.

She rolled her eyes and tossed the dress at me with the casual accuracy of years of practice. "You'll wear it. You'll look hot enough to stop traffic. You'll drink something overpriced and probably too strong. And you'll remember that you're more than a glorified assistant with stress wrinkles and a permanent crease between your eyebrows."

I caught the dress instinctively, the fabric sliding through my fingers like water. It was softer than it looked, warmer than I'd expected. "I do not have stress wrinkles."

She pointed at my forehead with the precision of a surgeon. "Tell that to this crease right here. And this one. Oh, and don't get me started on what you're doing to your jaw—you've been clenching it so hard I'm surprised your teeth haven't cracked."

I touched my forehead self-consciously, feeling the lines she'd pointed out. When had those appeared? When had stress started writing itself across my face in permanent ink?

I laughed despite myself and clutched the dress to my chest like it might bite me if I held it too loosely. The fabric was cool against my skin, and I could smell Layla's perfume on it—something expensive and confident that made me think of night blooming flowers and secrets shared in dim lighting.

Layla's expression softened, and for a moment, the theatrical confidence dropped away to reveal the friend who'd known me since we were eighteen and stupid and convinced we could conquer the world with nothing but determination and coffee. "You've been working yourself into the ground, Em. Like, literally. You're disappearing a little more every day, and I'm tired of watching it happen."

The words hit harder than I expected, settling somewhere deep in my chest with uncomfortable accuracy. I looked down at the dress, then at her, then at the mess of my closet and the mirror that hadn't seen lipstick in weeks—maybe months.

"Fine," I said with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than my lungs. "But if I trip in this thing and flash a stranger, I'm blaming you for the therapy bills."

"Deal." She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp and decisive in the quiet apartment. "Now let's make you look dangerous."