Violet Fairdale glided across the interior room of the art gallery in a black figure-hugging dress that was both jaw-droppingly stunning and horrendously uncomfortable. The fabric stretched across her chest, looped around her neck, and ran down the length of her right arm, forming a skin-tight sleeve all the way to her wrist. Her left arm was entirely bare.
She didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being strangled by her own outfit. She wasn’t wild about its asymmetry either. What was the point of having one sleeve? But there was no use dwelling on her discomfort, or her inability to breathe properly while sucking her stomach in so tightly. She had accepted the assignment—and the dress—without complaint, and the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could get on with her evenin
