Rakshasa's bedroom had stopped looking like a bedroom at least two hours ago.
Dresses were scattered across the bed, over two armchairs, hanging from folding screens, piled on a table, and even carelessly folded on the floor after being discarded. Red, black, wine, gold, purple, silk, lace, discreet sheer fabrics, more aggressive necklines, and cuts designed to emphasize every possible part of her body.
Rakshasa had asked for enough options to dress an entire court, yet she continued finding some problem with practically every single one.
At that moment, she stood before a large mirror wearing a black dress with wine-colored details that could probably make half the men at the gala forget why they had gone there.
The fabric hugged her waist, left her shoulders exposed, and followed the curves of her body down to a side slit that revealed a large portion of her leg whenever she walked.
The neckline did absolutely nothing to help anyone intending to keep their eyes on her face.
