The Morning of the Gala
1464 Words
The doorknob rattled again, violent and impatient.
"Vespera! Don't make me get the key!"
My adoptive mother’s voice was like a drill to the temple. Even from behind the heavy oak, Mrs. Thorne managed to sound both victimized and commanding.
I took a breath. The air in the room still tasted stale, like a life I had already discarded. I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Mrs. Thorne stood there, flanked by a maid who looked terrified to be breathing the same oxygen as her. My mother—no, my captor—held a garment bag like a weapon.
"Finally," she snapped, pushing past me into the room. She didn't look at my face. She never really looked at me, just at the space I occupied. "You’re running late. The stylists are focusing on Elara this morning; her complexion is acting up due to the stress."
"The stress of what?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Deciding which of my jewelry pieces to steal?"
Mrs. Thorne froze. She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"I said, deciding which jewelry to wear," I lied smoothly, my voice flat. "It must be hard."
She scoffed, dismissing my tone as morning grumpiness. She unzipped the garment bag and held up a dress.
It was beige.
Not a rich, creamy champagne. Not a soft gold. It was the color of wet cardboard. High-necked, long-sleeved, and shapeless. It was a dress designed to make a woman disappear into the wallpaper.
"Wear this," she commanded. "Elara is wearing emerald tonight. We can’t have you clashing. Besides, you know how sensitive she is about her weight lately. If you wear something fitted, she’ll just cry in the limo."
I stared at the dress. In my past life, I had worn it. I had pulled my hair back into a severe bun, kept my makeup invisible, and stood in the shadows while Lysander announced our engagement. The press had called me "The Thorne Family’s Plain Jane Ward."
"It’s lovely," I said. "Thank you, Mother."
"Don't call me Mother when you have that look on your face," she sniffed, tossing the dress onto the bed. "Be down in two hours. And for God's sake, cover those dark circles. You look like a ghost."
She swept out of the room, the maid trailing in her wake. The door clicked shut.
I locked it again.
I walked over to the bed and picked up the beige monstrosity. The fabric felt cheap against my fingers—polyester blend, likely. They spent thousands on Elara’s manicures and dressed me in bargain bin rejects.
"Be grateful," I mimicked her voice, the bitterness coating my tongue like acid. "Be invisible."
I carried the dress into the ensuite bathroom.
The marble sink was cold. I threw the dress into the basin.
I opened the cabinet under the sink. My hands moved with muscle memory I hadn't used in years. Hidden behind a stack of towels was a small emergency kit: rubbing alcohol, a lighter, and a box of hair dye I had bought on a whim three years ago but never had the courage to use.
I took the lighter.
The flame flickered, blue at the base, orange at the tip. I held it to the hem of the beige dress.
Whoosh.
Synthetic fabric burns fast. The fire curled up the skirt, turning the "modest" gown into a blackened, melting mess. Black smoke spiraled up toward the extractor fan. I watched it burn, the heat flushing my cheeks.
"Goodbye, Jane," I whispered.
I turned on the tap, drowning the charred remains before the smoke alarm could trigger. The dress was gone.
Now for the rest of me.
I grabbed the box of hair dye. Midnight Onyx.
Lysander loved my blonde hair. He said it made me look innocent, pure. "My little angel," he would say, right before asking me to commit tax fraud for him.
I stripped off my pajamas and stood in front of the mirror. I mixed the chemicals, the pungent smell of ammonia filling the small space. It stung my nose, sharp and grounding.
I didn't hesitate. I slathered the black paste over my platinum roots. I covered every inch of the golden halo Lysander prized so much.
While the dye set, I walked to the back of my closet.
I pushed aside the rows of gray, navy, and brown business suits I wore to run Thorne Enterprises from the shadows. I reached for the false panel in the back wall.
I had built this hidey-hole myself, bored one weekend when the Thornes were in Paris.
I pried the panel loose.
Inside hung a single garment bag, untouched.
I unzipped it. Red silk spilled out like fresh blood.
It was a custom piece I had designed and ordered under a fake name. Backless. A plunging neckline that stopped just short of scandalous. A slit that went up to my thigh. It was a dress meant for a woman who owned the room, not one who served drinks in it.
I checked my phone while waiting for the timer.
Thorne Enterprises Stock: $45.20.
It was trading high on the rumors of the engagement.
I logged into a secure server using a VPN I had coded myself. My fingers flew across the touchscreen. I accessed the dormant offshore account I had set up for a "rainy day"—an account Lysander didn't know existed.
It had a balance of $140,000. My entire savings from freelance coding gigs I did before the marriage consumed me.
I moved every cent into a short position against Thorne Enterprises.
"Leverage it," I muttered. "All of it."
If I was right—and I was always right—this $140,000 would be worth millions by next week.
Beep. Beep.
Timer’s up.
I rinsed my hair in the shower. The water ran black like ink, swirling down the drain. I scrubbed my skin raw, washing away the scent of the fire, the scent of the obedient daughter.
I stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself. I blow-dried my hair straight.
When I looked in the mirror, Vespera Thorne was gone.
The woman staring back was a stranger. Her hair was a curtain of obsidian, sharp and sleek. Against the black hair, my skin looked like porcelain, and my eyes—the blue and the hazel—burned with a terrifying intensity.
I put on the red dress.
It fit like a second skin.
I applied my makeup. No more "no-makeup" look. I lined my eyes with kohl. I painted my lips a deep, blood-red crimson.
I slipped on my stilettos—four inches of lethal steel.
A knock at the door.
"Vespera!" Mrs. Thorne’s voice again. "The limo is leaving! If you aren't out here in ten seconds, we are leaving you behind!"
I grabbed my clutch. Inside, I placed a USB drive containing the real Q3 financial reports.
I unlocked the door and swung it open.
Mrs. Thorne was already turning away, checking her watch. "Honestly, you are so selfish. I hope you put on that—"
She turned back. The words died in her throat.
Her eyes bulged. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a fish gasping for air.
"What..." she choked out. "What have you done?"
I stepped into the hallway. The red silk flowed around me like liquid fire. I towered over her in my heels.
"The beige dress had an accident," I said, my voice cool and amused. "I improvised."
"You... you look like a harlot!" she hissed, her face turning patchy red. "Go change! Immediately! You will ruin the aesthetic!"
"No."
The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Mrs. Thorne blinked, stunned. I had never said no to her. Not once in twenty years.
"What did you say to me?"
I leaned down, bringing my face close to hers. I smelled her expensive perfume—Chanel No. 5—and beneath it, the sour scent of fear.
"I said no," I whispered. "And if you shout at me again, I’ll tell the press about where you really spent the summer while Dad thought you were at the spa in Zurich."
Mrs. Thorne went pale. Her hand flew to her throat.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
I walked past her, my heels clicking a sharp, military rhythm on the hardwood floor.
"Coming, Mother?" I called out over my shoulder. "We wouldn't want to keep Lysander waiting."
I didn't look back. I reached the top of the grand staircase and looked down at the foyer.
The double doors were open. The night air rushed in, cool and promising.
The Golden Gala awaited.
Cyprian Hale awaited.
I touched the cold metal of the USB drive inside my clutch.
Ready or not, here I come.
- Writer
