The night Daniel Whitmore told his wife to hide in the darkest corner of the ballroom, Emily Carter was wearing the simplest dress in the room.
It was plain navy blue, with no designer tag, no expensive stitching, and no attempt to compete with the women glittering beneath the chandeliers. Near the hem was a tiny repair she had sewn herself that same afternoon at the kitchen table. The dress likely cost less than what most women at the gala had spent on a single pair of shoes.
But it was clean.
It was carefully ironed.
And to Emily, it meant something.
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