Dahlia's POV
"That's completely different," I muttered, pushing through the bathroom door. I peeled off the evening gown and stepped under the hot spray of the shower.
When I unzipped the garment bag the driver had delivered earlier, my heart dropped into my stomach.
Instead of finding my dress, a man's outfit stared back at me.
Lorena pressed herself against the frosted glass door, wine glass in hand, swirling the liquid in lazy circles.
Her shadow danced behind the glass.
"Dahlia, move faster," she called out.
I had already finished washing up, and there was absolutely no chance I was squeezing back into that suffocating dress.
Without a second thought, I pulled out a men's dress shirt from the bag and slipped it over my damp skin. The fabric smelled of dry cleaning chemicals and crisp mint.
