Dahlia

Tonight should have been a night off. No gowns. No councilmen. No daggered smiles. Just me, maybe a movie, and snacks that don’t judge me. But no. In the Yellow Stone Pack, breathing is considered a political act, and I’m doing it wrong.

Adrian dragged me to another high-ranking meeting-slash-dinner, supposedly more casual.

I sit stiffly by his side in a wine-colored dress. A dress when, mind you, all I wanted was jeans and a hoodie. My ribs hurt from how tight ...