The Rejected True Heiress
Maybe she had.
“Hold still,” Ambrose said, snipping the scissors in the air with a little sneer. “I’d hate to slip.”
He caught the neckline between two fingers and cut. The shears went in clean, slicing a long diagonal line from my collarbone down toward my ribs, opening the fabric wider than it had ever been meant to go. Cold air hit my skin and I made myself not flinch, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction. He cut again at the hem, slitting the skirt up past my knee, then stepped back to look at what he’d done.