Chapter 7

Corrie locked the door of the freezing, north-facing guest room.

She threw the cheap plastic bag onto the lumpy mattress. She reached inside and pulled out the royal blue knockoff dress.

She held it up by the shoulders. The harsh overhead light exposed every horrific flaw. The waistline was boxy, designed to fit a mannequin, not a human. The cheap rhinestones caught the light, glaring with a tacky, plastic shine.

Corrie's face remained entirely expressionless. She didn't feel panic. She felt the cold, clinical focus of a surgeon stepping up to the operating table.

She walked over to her canvas bag and unzipped a side pocket. She pulled out a pair of heavy, surgical-grade trauma shears. The blades were razor-sharp, designed to cut through leather boots and Kevlar in an emergency.

She walked back to the bed and laid the dress flat.

She didn't use chalk. She didn't measure.

Corrie grabbed the hem of the dress. The shears sliced through the cheap polyester with a sickening, tearing sound.

In less than three minutes, she amputated the bulky, ruffled sleeves, turning the top into a severe, asymmetrical halter.

She flipped the dress over. She drove the shears straight up the back seam, splitting the dress open down to the lumbar spine.

Next, her fingers moved like lightning. She gripped the glued-on rhinestones and violently ripped them off the fabric. The dry glue snapped and popped. She tore off hundreds of them, leaving only a cluster of the least offensive stones near the collarbone to act as a focal point.

She reached into her bag again and pulled out a spool of thick, black silk ribbon she used for tying off surgical tourniquets.

She stripped off her clothes. The cold air raised goosebumps on her pale skin.

She pulled the butchered blue fabric over her head. It hung loose and shapeless.

Corrie reached behind her back. She threaded the black silk ribbon through the raw, cut edges of the open back. She pulled the ribbon tight.

The fabric shrieked in protest, but the transformation was instantaneous.

The violent tightening of the ribbon cinched the waist perfectly against her ribs. The excess fabric gathered and draped over her hips, forcing the cheap polyester to mimic the heavy, liquid flow of a mermaid silhouette.

She tied a complex, brutal knot at the base of her spine, reaching into her bag one last time. Her fingers brushed past the stacks of cash and closed around the heavy, antique sapphire brooch George had given her. She pinned the massive, flawless gemstone directly over the raw knot of the black silk ribbon. The heavy, old-money opulence of the Warren family heirloom clashed violently with the avant-garde, deconstructed rebellion of the dress, creating an absolutely breathtaking, jaw-dropping masterpiece.

She walked over to the cracked mirror hanging on the closet door.

The dress was no longer a cheap knockoff. The raw, frayed edges where she had cut the fabric gave it a dark, deconstructed, avant-garde aesthetic. It looked like a piece of high-fashion rebellion, clinging to her sharp collarbones and narrow waist with aggressive perfection.

She didn't touch the makeup Dean had left on the dresser. She turned on the sink, splashed freezing water onto her face, and aggressively rubbed her cheeks until the friction brought a natural, blood-red flush to her skin.

She gathered her long, raven-black hair and twisted it into a messy, severe knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a single black pen.

She slipped her feet into a pair of plain, flat black leather loafers. No heels. She didn't need the height to look down on them.

Downstairs, the ballroom was a sea of suffocating wealth.

Dean Warren glided through the crowd in a deep purple velvet gown. She held a crystal flute of champagne, laughing musically at a joke told by a state senator. She was in her element, the undisputed queen of the Philadelphia social scene.

Near the grand staircase, Kelly was holding court.

"I swear to God," Kelly giggled, pressing a hand to her chest, surrounded by five other girls in pastel couture. "I bought it off a clearance rack next to a dumpster. It cost eighty-nine dollars. It's literally made of plastic. Wait until you see her. She's going to look like a cheap disco ball."

The girls erupted into vicious, high-pitched laughter.

Suddenly, the string quartet in the corner hit a discordant note and stopped playing.

The heavy, carved mahogany doors at the top of the grand staircase groaned open.

The sound of chatter in the ballroom didn't fade; it was violently decapitated. A suffocating, dead silence crashed over the room in a matter of seconds.

Corrie stepped out onto the landing.

The massive crystal chandelier above the stairs cast a brilliant, blinding spotlight directly onto her.

She stood there, looking down at the sea of upturned faces. The royal blue fabric clung to her body like a second skin. The raw, deconstructed edges of the dress screamed high fashion. The black silk ribbon trailing down her exposed back looked like a deliberate, dangerous statement.

She wore no diamonds. No pearls. But the sheer, cold arrogance radiating from her posture made the women below look like they were wearing cheap costumes.

Kelly's jaw unhinged. The muscles in her face went slack.

Her hand jerked, and the champagne in her glass sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto her pristine white Chanel dress. She didn't even notice. She stared up at the stairs, her eyes bulging with absolute, incomprehensible shock.

Dean's breath caught in her throat. A physical jolt of terror hit her chest.

For a split second, Dean didn't see Corrie. She saw Dolores. She saw the woman she had murdered, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her with the exact same aristocratic, untouchable disdain. Dean's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that they broke the skin.

In the center of the room, the editor-in-chief of a prominent New York fashion magazine pushed her glasses up her nose.

"Good lord," the editor whispered loudly in the silence. "Look at the draping on that bodice. The raw-edge technique... is that an unreleased Margiela? It's breathtaking."

Corrie began to walk down the stairs.

Her flat shoes made no sound on the carpet. She moved with a slow, predatory grace, her eyes locked dead ahead, completely ignoring the hundreds of people staring at her.

George Warren pushed his way to the front of the crowd. His chest swelled. A massive, overwhelming wave of pride washed over his face.

He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," George announced, his voice booming with authority. "My eldest daughter. Corrie Warren."

A smattering of polite, awestruck applause broke out.

Kelly felt her blood boil. A hot, blinding rage consumed her brain. She couldn't let this happen. This was her night. This was supposed to be the moment she destroyed the rust-belt trash.

Kelly stomped forward, her heels clicking aggressively against the marble. She stopped right in front of Corrie, blocking her path.

Kelly forced a loud, shrill laugh that sounded like glass breaking.

"Oh my god, sister!" Kelly yelled, making sure her voice carried to the very back of the room. "I cannot believe you actually wore it! You are so brave for wearing an eighty-nine dollar clearance rack dress to a high-society gala!"

The applause instantly died.

The air in the room turned toxic. The socialites exchanged sharp, calculating glances. The awe in their eyes rapidly morphed into sneering condescension.

Dean closed her eyes for a second, a wave of dark relief washing over her. She stepped forward, playing the peacemaker.

"Kelly, please," Dean scolded softly, her voice laced with fake embarrassment. "We don't talk about price tags in polite company. Your sister doesn't know any better."

Corrie stopped. She didn't shrink back. She didn't look embarrassed.

She slowly tilted her head to the side. Her face was a mask of wide-eyed, innocent confusion.

"Price tags?" Corrie asked. Her voice was crystal clear, cutting through the silence like a knife. She looked directly at Kelly. "But Kelly, you told me this was the height of Warren family fashion. You said you used Dean's black Amex card to buy it specifically for me, so I wouldn't embarrass you."

The silence in the room became absolute. You could hear a pin drop.

Corrie took a step forward, raising her voice just a fraction, projecting it to the entire room.

"I thought it was a bit cheap for a billionaire's daughter to spend eighty-nine dollars on her sister's welcome-home gown," Corrie said, her tone perfectly flat, devoid of malice, stating it like a simple fact. "But I didn't want to seem ungrateful to my new mother."

A collective, audible gasp ripped through the ballroom.

The bomb had detonated.

The socialites turned their heads, their eyes locking onto Dean and Kelly. The looks of condescension were gone, replaced by absolute, unadulterated disgust.

Everyone in Philadelphia knew Dean Warren played the perfect, loving stepmother. And now, she had just been outed for forcing her biological daughter to buy the returning heiress a literal piece of garbage with a black card.

Whispers erupted like wildfire.

"Eighty-nine dollars?" a senator's wife sneered loudly. "How incredibly tacky."

"Did you see the way Kelly tried to humiliate her?" another whispered. "Pure trash."

Dean's face turned a violent, sickly shade of gray. The elegant, untouchable mask she had worn for eighteen years shattered into a million pieces. Her stomach churned with violent nausea. She felt the burning, judgmental stares of her peers stripping the flesh from her bones.

Kelly stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. She looked around at her friends, but they all took a synchronized step back, distancing themselves from the radioactive embarrassment.

Corrie didn't smile. She didn't gloat.

She simply stepped around Kelly's frozen body, grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter, and walked into the crowd, leaving her stepmother and sister burning in the ashes of their own trap.