Novel & Cerita Crimson Lace

Inside, the air was stiflingly warm and smelled of lilies, a scent that was starting to make Aria feel nauseous. Cassandra was standing on a low podium, draped in white silk, while a team of three seamstresses pinned and tucked fabric around her body. This was the third custom gown consultation this week. "The lace is too scratchy," Cassandra complained, batting a hand at the woman kneeling at her feet. "It feels cheap. Does Damian look like a man who marries a woman wearing cheap lace?" "It’s French Chantilly, Miss Hale," the seamstress said meekly, her mouth full of pins. "It’s the finest in the world."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing a red mark on her neck. She was deliberately showing off her hickey.

Christine said. Azrael felt shivers running down her spine. But one question was still lingering in her mind despite of not taking in every realizations she just discovered. “Where-- how did you get this?” she asked. Christine looked at the Luna as if she asked the wrong question. Or as if the answer was already obvious. It was clear to see that she used her spells but the witch knew she had to explain. “The moment the Crimson Crest pack was attacked, I immediately thought of the Crescent Bow…” Christine started and mumbled a spell that made her look normal without the tiara and the princess dress.

She looked down on her clothes that looked ridiculous, she only had on Kevin's short and an oversize sleeved shirt. The old man had already noticed her an became excited. "My dear Lily!" He called out to her excitedly and Crimson turned to stare at the garden, she then began walking towards them shyly as she bend her head. Amber who heard the old man call out to someone looked back and was shocked to see Crimson walking over towards them in a strange outfit, how did she manage to get into such a respected mansion with that ridiculous dressing? "Grandpa do you know her? That is Crimson my band mate, are you sure you haven't confused her for someone else?"

“A mere prelude, Roberts. The Rachna’s foundation demands a declaration of absolute ownership.” Next came the lace: a minimal set of pure, vibrant scarlet undergarments, a colour that spoke of the blood and risk of their high-stakes political games. The bra was barely a breath of thread, offering tantalising glimpses of the high, full curve of her breasts. The matching thong was a mere suggestion, a slender line of lace that disappeared into the perfect valley of her lower back. She spun slowly for him again, the sheer, vibrant fabric an invitation and a provocation.

The music started softly and was now swelling when the doors at the back opened and Cassandra walked in. She looked stunning, like something out of a dream I used to have. She wore a deep crimson gown that looked rich and bold, it hugged her curves before flowing out in layers of silk and lace, with silver threads woven through like moonlight. A long veil trailed behind her, and diamonds sparkled at her throat and wrists. She carried a bouquet of white roses mixed with red ones, and her hair fell in perfect waves. She had this evil smile playing on her lips as she started down the aisle.

I adjust the strap of my red lace bra, feeling the delicate fabric scratch against my skin as I perch on the edge of the obsidian-black bedspread. The suite shifts around me, walls bleeding from crimson to deep purple as the temperature control responds to my body heat. I cross one stockinged leg over the other, the suspender belt tight against my thigh, and take another sip of cabernet. The wine stains my lips the same shade as my lingerie - deliberate, calculated, like everything else about tonight.

Especially after what he'd done earlier—shoving his fingers down my throat in that way. No. I didn't get off on pain. But I never pulled away when Damien Black was rough. Maybe because that was him—untamed, unapologetic, intoxicating. I took a breath, taking in the sight of myself. The delicate lace barely covered my breasts, intricate floral patterns teasing rather than concealing. Thin straps rested on my shoulders, in stark contrast to the plunging neckline that dipped dangerously low. The high-cut sides elongated my legs, the garter straps dangling like an unspoken invitation. The crimson hue—bold, fiery—was sin itself.

You must be wondering why the colour red, my dear husband decided that red looks good on me, and it is a symbol for blood, so rivals would know better than to attack. It is a stunning gown in deep crimson, adorned with intricate black lace and shimmering sequins. The dress has a form-fitting silhouette, accentuating my curves, with a dramatic mermaid-style skirt that cascades into a long train. The neckline is a daring plunge, adorned with a delicate black lace choker. The sleeves are sheer, with lace detailing and elegant button accents. To complete the look, I will be wearing a black veil, embellished with dark red roses, and carries a bouquet of deep red roses and black feathers. It's a t