Leah’s POVI stand in front of my closet, fingers trailing over the rows of perfectly pressed dresses.Pick your best.That’s what my father would expect.Anything less would be unacceptable.I exhale, stepping back slightly, my gaze sweeping over the meticulously organized space. Silks, chiffons, structured pieces in neutral tones—each one carefully selected, curated, and arranged. I know what he would say if I picked something too bold, too informal, too much like me.I finally settle on a sleek, dark green dress. It hugs my figure just right—elegant, refined, sophisticated. The kind of dress that doesn’t invite criticism.I slip it on, the cool fabric settling against my skin like armor.Next, my hair.I sink into the chair before my vanity, staring at the soft curls framing my face.Once, I had loved my curls.Wild and untamed, they had always felt like the truest expression of myself. Something uniquely mine. But my father had once told me, in his usual matter-of-fact tone, that
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