Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride
It was the black wool coat, the one she had sewn in the attic, now remade, its seams flawless, its structure impeccable.
"This is an armor of your own making," he murmured. He moved to the next piece, a dress of the deepest, midnight-blue, its drape so severe it looked like folded steel. "This is a weapon."
"It's a collection," Aurora said, her voice quiet, defensive. Her accent, a strange hybrid of New York polish and Parisian street, was as new as her name.
"It is a statement," Elias countered, turning. "And a statement is useless if it is left in a locked room, gathering dust."
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