Sophia’s P.O.V

Another hour later, I came down the stairs, the hem of my floral dress grazing my ankles as I moved slowly, deliberately, like each step had to matter. My hair was still a little damp, the waves falling loosely over my shoulders because my mother said it made me look softer, more composed—less fragile. She’d zipped me up herself, her hands gentle but firm, her voice laced with warning.

“People judge with their eyes first, Sophia. You’re not just any woman ...