The day started like any other, though something in the air already felt wrong.

I woke to the sound of silence - not the gentle stillness of dawn, but a brittle, unnatural quiet that seemed to press against the walls. Our apartment always felt small, but today it felt suffocating, like it knew something I didn't.

Sunlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, falling in delicate beams over the worn floorboards and the threadbare rug that barely covered the chill of the wood beneath. I stayed in bed a little longer than I should have, buried beneath the faded floral blanket that still smelled faintly of lavender and laundry powder.

It was warm under the covers. Safe. Familiar.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? I'd always been safe. Too safe. My father had made sure of it. I wasn't allowed out after dark. I didn't have friends. I hadn't even had my first kiss. He said it was for my own good, that the world was full of wolves waiting to devour girls like me. Innocent girls.

I used to believe him.

Now I wasn't so sure.

Pushing myself up, I rubbed my eyes and slipped my feet over the edge of the bed. My nightgown clung to my thighs - soft, faded cotton, with a little tear near the hem. I padded into the hallway, noticing immediately that something was off.

No coffee brewing. No late-night television murmuring from the living room.

No sign of him.

"Dad?" I called softly, my voice echoing too loudly in the still air.

No answer.

I made my way to the kitchen and froze.

There was a note. Just one line, scrawled in my father's uneven handwriting and stuck to the fridge with a rusted magnet:

Be ready by 6.

No explanation. No greeting. Just a command.

I stared at it for a long time, a shiver running down my spine despite the heat. He'd been acting strange lately - taking calls in hushed voices, locking the door to his office, avoiding my questions. Sometimes men would visit late at night, never staying long. Men who looked at me too long. Who smiled without kindness.

A few days ago, I'd heard shouting through the walls. Then glass breaking. He came out with blood on his shirt and told me he'd tripped.

I didn't believe him.

I never asked questions. That was the unspoken rule between us.

But now I was beginning to wonder if I should have.

Just as I turned away from the fridge, I noticed something laid carefully across the back of the chair in the corner.

A dress.

Not one of mine.

It was deep crimson - satin, expensive-looking, clinging to itself like liquid fire. The bodice was tight. The hem short. And it was strapless. Daring. Seductive.

I swallowed hard. My skin prickled as I reached for it, letting my fingers slide across the fabric. Cold. Smooth. Designed to make a statement.

A dress meant for a woman.

But I wasn't one. Not really. I was still trying to figure out what I was.

Before I could ask myself why it was there, I heard the front door open.

Then his voice. Low. Tired. "Isla?"

I turned around as my father stepped into the kitchen, his expression drawn. His suit looked borrowed. Slightly too big at the shoulders. His eyes flicked between me and the dress.

"I need you to wear that tonight," he said.

I frowned. "What's going on?"

"It's... it's a favor," he said, avoiding my gaze. "To help me. We're going to a dinner."

"A dinner?" I glanced back at the dress. "Then why that?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he'd touched me in weeks, and I noticed how unsteady he seemed. How desperate.

"Please, baby," he whispered. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. You're going to help me fix everything."

Help him?

Fix what?

My stomach twisted. My hands trembled at my sides.

But I didn't fight him. I didn't know how.

I nodded.

He gave me a weak smile. "Good girl."

Then he left the room, leaving the scent of cheap cologne and stress behind him.

I picked up the dress, It felt like sin in silk.

I held it against my chest for a long time, staring at myself in the cracked bathroom mirror. It didn't look like me. I didn't look like me.

I wasn't the kind of girl who wore something like this. I was soft, pale, quiet. The kind of girl men never noticed. But this dress was loud. It didn't ask for attention-it demanded it.

My skin prickled as I slipped it over my body. The fabric clung to every innocent curve I'd never thought twice about. The bodice pushed up my breasts, made me look fuller than I was, older than I felt. The hem skimmed my thighs in a way that made my breath catch.

I stared at myself. My cheeks were pink. My lips bare. My eyes wide and round like a doll's.

What the hell is going on?

A knock on the door pulled me back into the moment.

"I'm ready," I said, unsure if it was a lie.

When I stepped out, my father's eyes scanned me too fast, too nervously. He didn't say I looked beautiful. He didn't say I looked grown.

He said nothing at all.

Just led me silently down the stairs and out the front door.

A black car was waiting. A town car. Sleek. Expensive. Driven by a man in dark sunglasses and leather gloves despite the heat.

I hesitated.

My father touched my back.

"It's okay," he murmured. "They'll take good care of you."

They?

I turned to him, heart skipping. "Where are we going?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

Instead, he kissed my forehead like I was still five years old.

And just like that, the door closed behind me.

The inside of the car smelled like leather and aftershave. Cold air whispered from the vents, brushing over my bare shoulders. I sat stiffly, knees tight together, hands clenched in my lap. The driver didn't speak. Didn't glance at me. Just drove.

Tall buildings passed by, then dimmer streets. Then something changed. The city slipped away, and we began to climb a long, winding road up toward the hills.

The further we went, the more alone I felt.

What kind of dinner is this?

But even as I thought it, something in my chest said I already knew.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a wrought-iron gate that stretched high above the ground like twisted arms. Beyond it, stone pillars lined a circular drive, leading to a mansion that looked like something out of a forgotten century. Grand. Cold. Watching.

A man stepped out from the shadows and approached the driver's window. Words were exchanged quietly. Then the gate creaked open, groaning like it hated to be disturbed.

My heart beat faster.

It's just a dinner.

It's just a dinner.

It's not just a dinner.

The car eased forward.

Lights bathed the estate in gold, but there was no warmth in them. The front steps were flanked by statues-goddesses with blank eyes and broken wings. Inside, the entryway swallowed me whole. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet drapes drawn tight over tall windows.

I'd never been anywhere like this.

I didn't belong here.

A woman in a tight black dress and red lipstick greeted me. She looked me over without smiling, without speaking, then motioned for me to follow.

I turned once, hoping to see my father.

But the door shut behind me.

I was led down a corridor that grew quieter with each step, the music and chatter from the front parlor fading into muffled ghosts. Finally, the woman opened a side door and motioned me inside.

I gasped.

There were others.

Girls. Five of them.

Each one dressed like me-in silk and satin and things meant to seduce. Some sat on the edge of plush sofas, others stood by the mirror, fixing trembling makeup. No one spoke. No one smiled.

One girl was crying quietly in the corner, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Another stared straight ahead, like she'd already left her body behind.

"What... what is this?" I whispered.

No one answered.

But I already knew.

That dress hadn't been a gift. It had been a costume.

And we were the show.