Chapter 3
The stylists moved with quiet, practiced efficiency. Within forty-five minutes, the worn navy dress was discarded on the bedroom floor, replaced by a deep crimson silk gown that hugged my frame before cascading into a dramatic train. A diamond necklace—a piece from my mother’s private collection—rested heavy and cool against my collarbones.
Mrs. Martha stood at the bottom of the stairs, her hands covering her mouth, teary-eyed as I walked down.
“Oh, Miss Clarissa…” she whispered. “You look like royalty.”
“Thank you, Martha,” I said softly, handing her a card with my personal phone number written on it. “Pack your things tomorrow. You don’t belong in a house that treats people like garbage either.”
Thomas opened the heavy door of the navy Bentley Mulsanne, bowing slightly as I stepped inside. The leather interior smelled of cedar and familiar luxury.
“Where to, Miss Clarissa?” Thomas asked, stepping into the driver’s seat.
“The Grand Plaza Ballroom,” I said, leaning back against the leather headrest. “The Apex Group Gala.”
The drive downtown was smooth and silent. While rain streaked the dark windows, I looked at my phone one last time. Another notification from Chloe had flashed across the screen: a video of Julian standing beside the chief executive officer of Apex Group, raising a glass of scotch. Julian was pitching his firm’s expansion project, trying desperately to secure the five-million-dollar funding round that would save his firm from insolvency.
He didn’t know that Apex Group was a subsidiary of Vance Global.
He didn’t know that the lead investor he had been chasing for six months was my father.
When the Bentley pulled up to the grand entrance of the Plaza, valet attendants scrambled to open the door. Photographers lined the red carpet, their flashes blinking like white lightning against the wet pavement.
Thomas stepped out first, escorting me through the gilded doors of the lobby and up the private elevator directly to the top floor.
When the elevator doors parted, the sounds of a brass quartet, clinking champagne flutes, and low, wealthy chatter washed over me.
I stepped out into the ballroom.
A quiet wave of attention rippled outward from the entrance. Conversations faltered. Men turned from their groups; women lowered their glasses to stare. The woman in the crimson dress was unfamiliar to the city’s social elite, yet she carried herself with the unshakeable poise of someone who owned the room.
Across the room, standing near the grand ice sculpture, Julian was speaking animatedly to a group of board members. Chloe clung to his arm, sipping champagne, her eyes darting around the room to make sure people noticed her.
Then, Julian turned.
His eyes locked onto me.
His glass tilted, scotch sloshing over the crystal rim onto his sleeve, but he didn’t notice. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes wide in absolute disbelief. He stared at the silk, the diamonds, the immaculate hair, and finally, at my face.
“Julian…” Chloe murmured, pulling his sleeve. “What is it?”
Chloe followed his gaze. Her smile froze. Her grip on Julian’s arm tightened so hard her knuckles turned white.
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“That’s… that can’t be her,” Chloe whispered, her voice cracking with sudden anxiety. “Where did she get a dress like that? Who lent her those jewels?”
Julian didn’t answer. He set his glass on a waiter’s tray and began walking toward me, his stride hurried and ungrounded.
