The wardrobe room is bathed in soft, golden light. Rows of suits hang in perfect order along the walls, their dark fabrics catching the glow.
I stand before the full-length mirror, staring at a version of myself I barely recognize.
I hate wearing this kind of business suit. Perfect. Cold. Strict. Everything the Roselle name demands.
My fingers move to the collar, adjusting it with practiced indifference. I leave the top two buttons open—a small rebellion, a breath of air against my throat. The tie hangs loose around my neck, black silk against white fabric.
I don't like wearing ties. They feel like leashes.
My face twists with annoyance as I study my reflection. The man looking back at me has sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He looks like his father. He hates that.
