|| Lilac’s POV ||

The white gown clung to my skin like a second layer of shame, its delicate lace scratching at my collarbones with every breath. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting silver streaks across the floor, but the fabric meant to honor the full moon felt more like a burial shroud.

I stared at my reflection— pale face, hollow eyes, lips painted a perfect, lifeless pink. A doll dressed up for slaughter.

This isn't happening.

The knock at the door ...