2. Dressed for the Ball

The Sorcery Society Ball hummed with cursed champagne and borrowed magic.

Lanie’s bare thighs whispered against satin as she crossed the ballroom. No bra. No panties. Just George. The gown clung like a jealous lover, seams thrumming where her pulse flared.

*You're dripping. On my hem.*

She smirked, trailing a finger along the neckline. "Your hem is my hip, darling. Don’t pretend you don’t love the humidity."

Evelyn materialised in a cloud of opium smoke, her sequinned dress screaming for attention.

"Lanie! That gown—is it bespoke? It’s devouring you. Who’s the artiste behind this… masterpiece?"

Lanie plucked at the fabric from the bodice. "Oh, a collaborator. Insisted on a… hands-on approach to design."

"Mmm. Must have been very hands-on." Evelyn’s smirk sharpened. "The neckline’s practically confessional."

"He adores repentance," Lanie tugged the neckline downward, the silk tightening like a held breath. "And I adore making him kneel at my sewing machine."

Evelyn snorted. "Better than therapy?"

"Cheaper."

*Rot in hell.*

Evelyn leaned in, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Where’s George? He’s not… indisposed again?"

Lanie laughed, low and throaty. "He’s got himself wrapped around something critical. Fortunately, didn’t feel like dragging along any more accessories tonight."

The gown cinched her waist, its seams biting. *I’ll unravel you stitch by—*

"Hush," she murmured, patting her hip as if soothing a feral cat.

A waiter appeared—Jamie, perhaps in his early twenties, with tousled hair and hands still shaking from his first glamour shift. His gaze snagged on her chest.

*Pathetic. His presence is like mud. Smells like dormitory socks and regret.*

Lanie plucked a champagne flute from Jamie’s tray, letting her thumb graze his wrist. "Fresh meat?"

"Y-yes, ma’am." A blush crawled up his throat.

"Ma’am," she repeated, rolling the word like hard candy. "Georgie, he called me ‘ma’am’."

*Because you’re ancient.*

"I’m Lanie." She stepped closer, watching Jamie’s Adam’s apple jump. "And you’re perspiring."

The gown’s neckline plunged another inch, her nipples hardening against the satin.

*Stop. Twisting. You will pop my—*

"Relax," she crooned, both to Jamie and to the seams. "I don’t bite."—unless asked.

Evelyn snorted. "Liar. Remember the werewolf at Beltane?"

Jamie’s gaze dropped to Lanie’s mouth. The gown’s slit crept higher, exposing her bare thigh.

*You're gross. He's almost a child.*

*And you're a dress,* she shot back silently, grinding her molars. Aloud: "Fetch me something stronger, Jamie. The bourbon buried under the bartender’s guilt."

As he scurried off, Evelyn arched a brow. "No underthings? Bold for purification rituals."

Lanie shrugged, the motion making her breasts shift. "Blame George. He contaminated my wardrobe. Now this is the only thing clean enough to touch my skin."

*This isn’t right. Your spell was twisted.*

*Was it? Or did you beg for this when you stole my slip?*

Across the room, Jamie returned, liquor sloshing in a coupe glass. The gown’s hem dampened.

*You're wetter than a selkie’s funeral.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," she whispered, then took the drink, letting her pinky brush Jamie’s. "Tell me, handsome—ever danced with a cursed garment?"

The chandelier flickered. Somewhere, another moth burst into blue flames.

Lanie smiled.