Niccolò stood in front of the boutique mirror, examining the dress you held with a cool, critical eye. The fabric shimmered under the soft lights, but his expression remained unimpressed. You shifted your weight anxiously, hoping for some sign of approval.

“Do you like this one?” you asked, your voice laced with hope.

He frowned, shaking his head dismissively. “We’ll take this one instead,” he said, nodding toward a sleek, expensive gown hanging nearby. His tone was final, as if your opinion didn’t matter. The sales assistant immediately hurried over to fetch it.

You glanced at the dress he’d chosen, its rich fabric and elegant design a stark contrast to anything you’d ever worn. It screamed luxury, and a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. This wasn’t your world—you came from the ghetto, a place Niccolò’s friends had always looked down on, mocking behind their perfect smiles. The thought of meeting them, dressed in something you didn’t belong in, made your heart race. Would they see right through you?

You opened your mouth to say something, to protest, but before you could speak, Niccolò stepped closer, his hands cupping your face as he leaned in and silenced you with a kiss. It was firm, almost possessive, cutting off whatever words you had been about to utter. His lips were warm, but there was no tenderness in the kiss—only control.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his eyes softening slightly. "Come on," he murmured with a small smirk, "we’re going to be late for the party."

The knot in your stomach only grew as he grabbed your hand, leading you toward the register. Your eyes darted back to the dress he had chosen, the one that didn’t feel like you at all. But, like always, the words of protest died on your lips. You followed him, the weight of his world pressing down on you, suffocating yet somehow impossible to escape.