The Jilted Heiress In Blood Red

The Georgetown apartment was dead silent. It lacked the suffocating oppression of the Beaumont estate, but it held its own kind of emptiness. Harlene threw her purse onto the floor. It hit the hardwood with a dull thud. She walked straight to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. She twisted the faucet and splashed freezing water onto her face, the cold shock making her gasp. Then, she grabbed a bottle of numbing spray from the cabinet and doused her swollen left ankle until the skin went white and dead. She looked up at the mirror. The woman staring back had wild eyes-chaotic, but terrifyingly awake. The front door burst open. Winter McCoy, her assistant, rushed in, her face pale with worry. In her hand, she clutched a small orange bottle of pills. "Harlene, you need to take your sedative. You're not thinking straight." Harlene slapped the bottle out of Winter's hand. It hit the tile floor, the plastic cracking, pills scattering everywhere like tiny white marbles. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Winter flinched, staring at the pills scattered across the floor. "Harlene, please. Don't go to that dinner. It's a trap. They just want to humiliate you." Harlene stepped forward. Ignoring the sharp, sickening protest from her ankle, she put her full weight onto her heel, crushing a pill into powder on the tile. The crunch was satisfying. "That's exactly why I'm going." She marched to her closet. She grabbed the hangers holding the conservative, pastel dresses that Genevieve approved of-colors meant to make her invisible-and ripped them out. She threw them onto the floor in a heap of silk and chiffon. Her eyes landed on the back of the closet. Hanging there, in all its dark glory, was the dress Mitch had found. A deep crimson velvet gown, tight, floor-length, with a slit that ran high up the thigh. It was a dress meant to draw blood. Harlene pulled it on. The velvet clung to her curves like a second skin. She forced her feet into a pair of lethal stilettos; the tight leather acted like a makeshift splint, binding the pain into a dull, manageable throb. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She looked like a flame about to consume everything in its path. She ran her hand along her thigh, feeling the outline of the thin, leather sheath custom-sewn into the lining, perfectly concealed by the dramatic slit. An old precaution. A promise to herself that she would never be defenseless again. Winter held out a pair of simple pearl earrings. "At least wear these. Tone it down." Harlene shook her head. She dug into the back of a drawer and pulled out a pair of sharp, metallic tassel earrings. They dangled like silver daggers. She sat at the vanity. She didn't try to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Instead, she took a charcoal eyeshadow and smeared it heavily, making the hollows look deeper, more bruised. She looked sick. She looked feral. She picked up a tube of bright red lipstick. She applied it carefully, then deliberately smeared the edge just past her lip line. It looked like a fresh wound. Winter let out a shaky sigh. "What are you doing, Harlene? Are you trying to win Dennis back? Because this isn't the way." At the mention of his name, Harlene's hand froze. Then, a laugh erupted from her throat. It was a harsh, grating sound that held no humor, only pain and madness. She turned to face Winter, her eyes blazing. "Win him back? No, Winter. I'm going to show them exactly what their monster looks like." Her phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a message from Dennis. Don't make a fool of yourself tonight. Harlene stared at the words. She traced the screen with her fingertip, the cold glass offering no comfort. The last flicker of warmth in her eyes died out, replaced by ice. She typed back a single emoji. A smiley face. It was the most sarcastic, insulting response she could give. Before walking out, Harlene paused in the hallway. Hanging on the wall was a portrait of her grandmother. The only person who had ever held her without an agenda. She leaned in close, her voice a broken whisper. "If you see me tonight, Grandmother, forgive me for not being decent." In the car, Winter shoved a can of pepper spray into her hand. "Just in case." Harlene tossed it into her clutch. She looked out the window at the city lights. The Christmas decorations still glittered on the streets, but in Harlene's world, there was only black, white, and the red of her dress. As the car pulled away, Winter watched it go, her heart pounding. Her hands trembled as she pulled out her own phone and dialed a number Harlene had given her for dire emergencies only. "She's on her way," Winter whispered into the phone, her voice tight with fear. "She's going to the gala. I think... I think she's going to burn it all down." A calm, steady voice replied on the other end before the line went dead, leaving Winter alone in the silent apartment, praying she had done the right thing. The car pulled up to the hotel entrance. The moment the door opened, a barrage of camera flashes exploded, blinding her like a swarm of wasps. Harlene didn't shield her face. She didn't cower. She stepped out of the car with her chin held high. The red velvet dress caught the light, making her look like a drop of blood against the snowy pavement. The reporters shouted over each other. "Harlene! Are you having a breakdown?" "How do you feel about Estella's award?" "Is it true you're off your meds?" She didn't answer. She just smiled that creepy, serene smile, soaking in their horror like a sponge. A hotel security guard rushed forward, reaching for her elbow. "Miss Beaumont, please use the service entrance." Harlene slapped his hand away with a loud crack. She walked straight past him, her heels clicking on the red carpet like gunshots, her stride steady only through a sheer, manic force of will, moving with the authority of a queen entering her conquered territory. She reached the grand golden doors. She pushed them open with both hands. The noise inside the ballroom died instantly. Hundreds of faces turned to stare at the woman in the blood-red dress, the silence so thick it choked the air.