Sebastian didn’t even hesitate and said, “Polly, give the dress to Adele. She’s young and beautiful. She’ll look good in it. You, on the other hand, just shuffle around doing housework all day. You're already wrinkled face and out of shape, it won't suit you.”
Adele giggled sweetly. “You’re the best, Sebastian.”
That dress wasn’t just fabric to me. I’d spent five years designing and perfecting it for our wedding. Every stitch carried my love, my hope, my devotion. I couldn’t even blame Adele for liking it.
But when I looked at Sebastian through my tear-reddened eyes, his expression was cold.
“Don’t be stingy,” he said. “Just name your price.”
Five years of marriage built on servitude. Five years of being the live-in maid, whom no one respected. What was a wedding dress like that worth now?
Honestly, I didn’t care anymore.
The last time I didn’t give up my seat next to Sebastian on the Ferris wheel for Adele, I ended up tied to a seat and forced to go around all night long.
As I received a message, I glanced down at my phone.
[I submitted the entry form. I’ll come pick you up.]