Camila's POV
The evening of the ball arrived faster than I expected.
I stood before the gilded mirror in my chambers, my breath catching at the reflection staring back at me.
The emerald gown clung to my curves like a second skin, the deep green silk shimmering under the candlelight. The silver embroidery wove around my waist and trailed down the long skirt, swirling like delicate vines. The bodice dipped low, the neckline scandalous yet elegant, while the off-the-shoulder sleeves left my collarbones exposed.
A final touch of jewelry completed the look—a silver choker embedded with tiny emeralds, matching the gown perfectly.
My dark curls had been styled in soft waves, cascading down one shoulder. A few loose strands framed my face, emphasizing the sharp angles of my cheekbones. My lips were painted a deep red, bold and defiant.
I had never felt more powerful.
"Miss Camila," a soft voice interrupted my thoughts.
