"That dress is practically begging for attention."

Emma hit replay on the video for what felt like the hundredth time, her thumbnail digging into her palm as she braced for the same flood of humiliation.
But something was different.
The neckline of her graduation gown—which she swore had been a modest square-cut when she filmed this—now dipped lower, revealing a hint of cleavage that hadn’t been there before. The sleeves, once loose and flowy, clung tighter to her arms.
@DressCodeEnforcer: That dress is practically begging for attention.
Emma’s breath hitched. No. That’s not—
She scrolled back up. Rewound. Played again.
The neckline dipped further.
A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck. She could see it changing, frame by frame, but when she tried to focus, her thoughts slid sideways.
Hadn’t she... chosen this dress on purpose?
A sudden memory flashed—herself in the dressing room, tugging the fabric lower, smirking at her reflection. Might as well give them something to look at. The thought felt foreign, like someone else’s voice layered over her own.
Her phone buzzed.
NEW COMMENT: @FashionPolice: Keep going, sweetheart. We can still see your dignity.
Emma threw the phone onto her bed like it had burned her.
That’s when she noticed her closet door was slightly ajar.
Inside, hanging front and centre, was a row of dresses she didn’t recognize—silk, low-cut, the kind of thing she’d normally roll her eyes at. But when she reached out to touch the fabric, her fingers lingered.
They were pretty.
The thought slithered into her mind, sticky-sweet. She should wear things like this more often.
Emma blinked, shaking her head.
Something was very, very wrong.
And the worst part?
Part of her didn’t want to care.