*your dress always notices when you are speaking lies even if no one else does.

The carriage door closes with a sound that feels far too final.

The street noise dulls at once, replaced by the muted rhythm of hooves and wheels, the small enclosed space thick with fabric, perfume, and things unsaid. You sit across from her at first—proper, composed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

Your dress is calm.

For now.

The carriage lurches forward, swaying slightly as it turns onto the cobbled road. You brace instinctively, breath catching as the corset presses more firmly against your ribs. You adjust, subtly, as though discomfort were merely another accessory to be worn politely.

Jenna notices anyway. She always does.

“You need not look so tense,” she says gently. “We are quite alone.”

The words quite alone land dangerously.

“I am not tense,” you reply at once, your lace hands folded delicately in your lap.

The lie barely has time to settle before the corset tightens—slow, deliberate, as if offended by the speed with which you denied it. You inhale carefully, schooling your breath into something shallow and acceptable.

The carriage jolts again.

Your balance falters just enough that you reach out without thinking—fingers brushing the seat beside you. She does not hesitate. She shifts closer, skirts whispering, until your knees nearly touch.

The dress draws in.

Not sharply. Not enough to betray you. Just enough that your lungs ache with the effort of restraint.

“You are pale,” she murmurs. “Truly, you should sit nearer the window.”

“I am well,” you insist.

Another tightening. Firmer now. Your dress knows all lies.

You feel it beneath your breastbone, the way it limits you to measured breaths, the way it responds to the truth you keep pressed down like a crime.

The carriage hits a rut in the road.

You gasp—quietly, involuntarily—and she is at your side in an instant, one hand gripping the seat behind you, the other hovering at your waist before stopping short, propriety reasserting itself like a physical barrier.

“Forgive me,” she says softly. “May I—?”

*You shake your head.?

“No,” you whisper. “Please.”

The word please is honest.

Everything else is not.

The corset tightens again, responding to the refusal, to the way your body leans toward her despite it.

She studies you closely now, concern darkening her eyes.

“You are struggling to breathe,” she says.

“Why do you insist on pretending otherwise?”

You look away, toward the narrow window, watching the city slide past as though it belongs to someone else entirely.

“It is improper to make a fuss,” you reply.

The dress draws in—firm, unyielding.

She exhales slowly.

“Then allow me,” she says quietly, “to be improper on your behalf.”

Her fingers move—not to touch you, not yet—but toward the laces at your back, stopping just short of contact.

Your heart stutters.

The corset tightens once more, as if aware of the threat.

You swallow.

“If you loosen it,” you say carefully, “you will invite questions.”

She meets your gaze, unflinching.

“And if I do not,” she answers, “I fear you will not last the ride.”

The carriage sways again.

The truth presses upward, aching, desperate for air.

The dress tightens as you jolt closer to her, as if reminding you "behave yourself."

And you must decide—

whether it is more dangerous to be seen struggling…

or to finally, finally stop lying.