Meher pov

The mirror in the East Wing of The Aethelgard Sanctuary was not just a reflective surface; it was a diagnostic eye, a silent, obsidian judge that mapped every pore, every heartbeat, and every lie I was forced to live. I stood on the rotating pedestal, my feet bare against the cold stone, watching as the automated stylists finished the final integration of the gown. Vedant hadn't chosen gold for this part of the evening. He had chosen Red Silk—the color of a heartbeat, the color of a warning. The fabric was a marvel of Raizada Industries, woven with microscopic fibers that shimmered like liquid rubies under the clinical LED lights. It didn't just drape; it clung, a second skin that felt heavier than lead.