Chapter 80 Elara

Elara stood before her closet, scanning rows of carefully organized dresses. “Wear something nice,” he’d said, as if every piece of clothing she owned hadn’t been meticulously selected to meet his exacting standards. She pulled out a deep burgundy dress she’d been saving for their next business dinner, its silk material flowing like wine through her fingers. Seven o’clock approached with maddening slowness. She found herself checking her appearance in every reflective surface, adjusting her hair, second-guessing her choice of jewelry. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to her reflection. “It’s just dinner with your fake husband.”