The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

The morning sun was gray and weak. Cristina sat on the floor, her laptop balanced on her knees. She was on the immigration website, finalizing her visa for France. Her finger throbbed. She had wrapped a band-aid around the cut, but it stung every time she typed. The laptop screen changed. A video call request popped up. Davida Powell. Cristina stared at the name. Her thumb hovered over the 'Decline' button. But a morbid curiosity took over. She wanted to see the face of the woman who had won. She clicked 'Accept'. Davida's face filled the screen. She was in a hospital bed, surrounded by ridiculous bouquets of white lilies. She looked pale, but her eyes were bright with malice. "Hey, sis," Davida cooed. Her voice was raspy. "What do you want, Davida?" Davida lifted her left hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. The movement was deliberate. On her ring finger sat a massive pink diamond. Cristina's breath hitched. The Floyd family heirloom. Jackson had told her it was lost in a vault years ago. "Just wanted to see if you were okay," Davida said, admiring the ring. "Jackson said you were hysterical last night. Breaking things. Bleeding all over the floor." Cristina quietly took a screenshot of the ring. "I'm packing," Cristina said. "You won. Enjoy the prize." "Oh, I will," Davida smiled. "He stayed here all night, you know. Sleeping in the chair. He told me he's going to give me the wedding you never had. A real one." Cristina felt the bile rise in her throat. "He's all yours, Dee. The late nights, the coldness, the lies. You can have it all." Davida's smile faltered. She didn't like that Cristina wasn't crying. She reached for her phone and played an audio file. It was Jackson's voice. I promise, Dee. As soon as she's gone, we'll go to Fiji. Just you and me. No baggage. "Baggage," Davida repeated. "That's you." Cristina looked into the camera lens. "One man's trash is another man's treasure, Davida. But in this case, I think I'm just taking out the garbage for you. You're welcome." She ended the call before Davida could respond. She immediately blocked the number. Then she blocked Jackson. She stood up and walked to the master closet. Jackson's side was still full. Rows of Italian suits, custom shirts, silk ties. Thousands of dollars of fabric. She stared at the suits. She could shred them, but that was petty. That was emotional. She needed to be surgical. She grabbed a large black trash bag. She pulled the suits off the hangers, folding them roughly, and stuffed them into the bags. One bag. Two bags. Five bags. She dragged them to the service elevator and called the Salvation Army pickup line. "I have a donation," she said into the phone. "From the Floyd residence. High-end menswear. Yes, pick it up immediately." Twenty minutes later, the apartment was empty of his presence. When the porters hauled the bags away, she felt the space physically lighten. She went to the bathroom and took her phone. She popped the SIM card slot open with an earring. The tiny chip fell into her palm. She snapped it in half. She dropped the pieces into the toilet and flushed. The swirling water took away her number, her contacts, her connection to them. She walked back to the living room. Her suitcase was by the door. She was ready. But then she remembered the sketchbook. She had left it on the desk in the study when she was packing the night before. She cursed under her breath. She couldn't leave that behind. It had the prototypes for the Spring Collection. If Jackson found it, he would know she was Sunny. She turned around and headed toward the study.