CHELLEY MORETTI “Just a fraction of an inch to the left, ma'am," Rita murmured, her breath warm against my back as her nimble fingers adjusted the structured, silk-faille bodice of my gown.I didn’t move. I stood perfectly still on the pedestal in the center of my walk-in closet, a sprawling sanctuary of marble, mirrored glass, and custom Dior. The dress was a masterpiece of midnight-blue architecture—sharp, structural, and unapologetically dominant. It was a revenge dress in its purest form, designed not to entice, but to intimidate. It was the armor of a woman who had crossed through fire and learned to command the flames.In my hands, I held the small, silver-framed photograph of my mother. My thumb gently traced the soft curve of her smile in the faded image. I told you I would make them pay, Mom, I thought, a quiet, fierce vow echoing in the chambers of my heart. I told you they wouldn't get away with it."The world is finally seeing the truth, Lady Chelley," Rita added, her
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