I reached out reflexively, extending a napkin toward her, only for Layla to pull away, her jaw set, her face flushing. "I don't need your help," she said firmly, trying her best to sound unaffected.
She dabbed at the wine stain on her shirt, which was soaked enough to become almost transparent. The dark fabric clung to her, and I could see the outline of her bra beneath, which she either didn't notice or chose to ignore.
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Look, do what you want, but everyone in this room can pretty much see—" I raised an eyebrow, gesturing to her shirt. "Maybe we should get you something else to wear."
She turned, glaring at me, her eyes flashing. "I'm fine, Zaya. It's just a little wine." She went back to dabbing at the fabric, her fingers brushing against the soaked material with an exaggerated nonchalance. "And I don't particularly care if it's a bit… sheer."
