That night, Lila tries on the dress. She stands before the mirror, wrestling with the image of the woman looking back—strong, vulnerable, seen. Somewhere high above, Damien looks out his window into the storm. The final image: him whispering her name, almost reverently.
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Part 6: "The Mirror and the Muse"
Last moment:
[She stared at herself in the mirror, dress pressed to her chest, and whispered aloud to the empty apartment—"Who are you?"]
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She waited until night fell.
Not because she was scared. That's what she told herself.
But the truth was quieter. And sharper.
She needed the dark. Needed the silence. Needed the city to close its eyes before she could open hers.
The box sat on her bed for hours like an unanswered question. She circled it. Ignored it. Fed herself soup she didn't taste and showered with the door cracked open, as if something might slip in without asking.
It didn't.
Finally, just before midnight, she peeled off her t-shirt, stepped into the dress.
It didn't just fit.
It knew her.
The zipper whispered up her spine like a secret.
The fabric clung to the curve of her waist, the slope of her collarbone, the shadows of her hips. The off-shoulder sleeves hugged her arms as if they belonged there. Like the dress wasn't something she'd put on—but something she'd shed to become.
She stood in front of the mirror.
And didn't recognize herself.
The girl staring back wasn't tired, or hungry, or angry.
She looked… dangerous.
Not because of the red. Not because of the dress.
Because she was starting to believe it was hers.
Lila touched the mirror.
Ran her fingers along her reflection's throat. Imagined hands—his hands—resting there. Imagined him seeing her like this. Not as a charity case, not as a portfolio submission.
As something rare.
Lightning flashed outside. The room flickered silver.
She looked toward the window. Swore she felt something watching. But when she pulled the curtain aside, all she saw were buildings and rain and the thousand other people trying to sleep in the skeleton of the city.
Still—something lingered.
A feeling.
Far above, on the penthouse floor of Blackwell Tower, Damien stood in his own darkness. Lights off. Hands in his pockets. The rain traced the glass like it was trying to claw its way inside.
He said nothing.
But his mouth moved.
And in the silence, his breath fogging the glass, he whispered her name—
"Lila"
Like a promise.
Or a curse.