Arlecchino watches you with arms crossed. The outfit she’s chosen is—well. It’s something.

Her fingers tap against her arm, but you have nothing to read from her. You shift under her gaze, glancing down at yourself. The fabric clings in places you wouldn’t have chosen, the fit just a little too perfect, like she knew your measurements better than you did. It’s elegant, sharp-edged, undeniably her taste—and it leaves you wondering if you’re about to be paraded as one of her prized possessions or simply thrown into as a mannequin with style.

A beat passes. Then, she tilts her head, lips curling just slightly. “What’s with that look? Do you not trust my judgment?”

Her heels finally step forward, gloved fingers adjusting your collar with slow, deliberate care, her voice drops, low and knowing.

“Don’t worry, mon cœur.” A smirk now, slight but it was unmistakable. “You wear it beautifully.”