Chapter 2 2

The silence of the room was broken by a tentative knock on the door.

"Miss Kaycee?"

The voice was soft, hesitant.

Kaycee's breath hitched. She knew that voice. She would know it anywhere.

Maria.

In her previous life, Maria had been fired by Aldo three months after the wedding for 'stealing silverware'-a lie fabricated to get rid of the only person in the house who truly cared about Kaycee. Two weeks later, Maria had died in a hit-and-run that the police never solved. Kaycee knew now that it wasn't an accident.

"Come in," Kaycee said, her voice raspy.

The door creaked open, and the middle-aged maid stepped in, holding a freshly pressed dress. She looked younger than Kaycee remembered, her face free of the worry lines that had deepened in those final months.

"I brought the dress for tonight, Miss. The red one you asked for."

Kaycee stared at the woman, fighting the urge to run across the room and hug her. She dug her nails into her palms, using the sharp pain to ground herself.

"Thank you, Maria," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Just... put it on the bed."

Maria blinked, surprised by the gratitude. Usually, Kaycee-or the version of Kaycee she had been-would have snapped at her for being too slow or for bringing the wrong shade of red.

"Are you alright, Miss? You look... pale."

"I'm fine," Kaycee said, turning back to the mirror. "Just a bad dream."

Maria nodded uncertainly and placed the dress on the bed before quietly retreating.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Kaycee turned her attention to her reflection. She looked ridiculous. Her face was caked in layers of foundation two shades too dark, her eyes rimmed with thick, raccoon-like eyeliner. It was the "party girl" armor she had worn to hide her insecurities, a mask constructed by Corrine's endless critiques.

"You need to look fierce, Kaycee. Men like Aldo want a trophy, not a nun."

Kaycee grabbed a bottle of makeup remover from the vanity and poured it onto a cotton pad. She scrubbed at her face with a violence that left her skin red and raw.

Layer by layer, the artificial tan and the glitter came off. The smoky eye shadow smeared, then vanished. The contouring that made her look gaunt disappeared.

When she was done, the face in the mirror was pale, clean, and unfamiliar. Her eyes, usually hidden behind false lashes, looked larger, darker. There was a sharpness to her jawline that she hadn't noticed before.

She walked to her walk-in closet, ignoring the rack of neon bandage dresses and sequined tops that Aldo loved. She pushed them aside, the hangers clattering, until she found it.

A simple black silk slip dress. It was vintage, something her mother had left her. It was elegant, understated, and completely out of character for the "Blind Socialite."

She pulled it on. The cool silk slid over her skin like water. She pinned her hair up in a loose, messy bun, exposing the long line of her neck.

She needed one more thing.

She went to the bottom drawer of her jewelry cabinet and pulled out a false bottom. Inside lay a sleek, black folding knife. It was a relic from her teenage years, a gift from Hakeem Harrell-the man she called 'Uncle,' the man the world knew as the Chairman of the Syndicate.

She hadn't touched it in years, brainwashed into believing that weapons were unladylike, that she needed a man to protect her.

She flicked her wrist. The blade snapped open with a satisfying click. The weight of it in her hand felt right. It felt like an extension of her arm.

She folded it back and slipped it into her clutch.

Kaycee took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the room.

Downstairs, the foyer was empty, save for her stepmother, Angelle, who was adjusting a vase of lilies on the console table. Angelle looked up, her eyes narrowing as she took in Kaycee's appearance.

"Going to a funeral?" Angelle sneered, her voice dripping with faux concern. "I thought you were meeting that boring Gallagher boy. Did you finally decide to dress as depressing as he is?"

Kaycee stopped on the bottom step. In the past, she would have rolled her eyes and thrown back a bratty retort.

Instead, she looked down at Angelle with a gaze so cold it could have frozen hell over.

"I'm going to meet my fiancé," Kaycee said quietly. "And if I were you, Angelle, I'd worry less about my dress and more about the audit coming for the charity foundation next week."

Angelle froze, her hand knocking against the vase. The water sloshed over the rim. "What did you say?"

Kaycee didn't answer. She walked past her, the heels of her shoes clicking rhythmically on the marble floor.

She stepped out into the cool evening air. The garage attendant had already pulled the car around. It was a bright, obnoxious pink Lamborghini Aventador-a birthday gift from her father, customized to Aldo's tacky specifications.

Kaycee grimaced at the color, but she didn't have time to swap cars.

She slid into the driver's seat. The leather smelled of new car and stale perfume. She gripped the steering wheel.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Corrine.

"Everyone is at the bar waiting for you! Don't tell me you're actually going to dinner with The Suit. Stick to The Plan!"

Kaycee tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

She keyed the ignition. The engine roared to life, a beast waking up.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 6:45 PM.

Hunter's reservation was at 7:00 PM. Traffic in the city would be a nightmare.

Kaycee shifted gears, her movements precise and fluid. She wasn't the "road hazard" everyone joked about. That had been an act, a way to make Aldo feel necessary, to make him feel like the man.

Not anymore.

She slammed her foot onto the accelerator. The tires screeched against the pavement, leaving black rubber marks on the pristine driveway.

The pink blur shot out of the gates, weaving through the evening traffic with the surgical precision of a fighter pilot.