The designer's Manhattan atelier smelled of steamed silk and vanilla, the air thick with anticipation and too-bright light. Aria swept past racks of evening gowns, her heels soundless on the plush rug. She didn't bother with the timid deference she'd clung to during fittings in her first life; now, every movement was purposeful, every glance a silent challenge.
Catherine Pierce's annual charity gala was two days away, and the city's gossip columns already speculated on which "billionaire wife" would wear which designer. In her first timeline, Aria had let Catherine and Vanessa dress her in blush pink—a color that disappeared against the marble ballroom and her own uncertainty. She'd spilled red wine on herself before dinner, spent the night hiding in the powder room, and left a perfect target for whispers. That girl was gone.
Now, Aria stalked the row of mannequins, fingers grazing sequins, velvet, beading. She scanned for strategy, not beauty. Dress as armor. Dress as a declaration. Vanessa would choose red again, as always—an open challenge, a dare for attention. Catherine would be in pearl or ivory, the queen bee, impossible to upstage but easy to annoy.
"Mrs. Pierce." The designer, a nervous man with tortoiseshell glasses, appeared at her elbow with a tray of champagne. "We've pulled several options, as you requested! The green silk, the gold brocade—"
Aria shook her head. "Show me the emerald gown with the asymmetric shoulder." She wanted Vanessa's color—but on her own terms. Emerald, not scarlet. Vanessa's own green eyes reflected back at her, weaponized.
A dressing assistant whisked the gown off the mannequin. The silk pooled in her arms like cool water. Aria slipped behind the curtain, baring skin marked only by memory—no scars, not yet.
She stepped into the gown. The fabric flowed over her, pooling around her feet, hugging her at the waist and shoulder. She studied her reflection: not a princess, but a queen. No softness, only poise and something sharper beneath. The line of her jaw, the set of her mouth. The eyes—amber, not honey. Predator, not prey.
The designer fussed with the hem. "It's bold, Mrs. Pierce. The last time someone wore emerald to the Pierce gala…"
"They were talked about for months," Aria finished, lips curling.
He glanced up, startled. "Exactly."
"Perfect."
She checked her grandmother's watch—habit, anchor, countdown. 1,092 days. Every tick was a reminder: stay alert, stay sharp.
The curtain parted and Catherine appeared, flanked by her stylist. "Aria," Catherine purred, "Isn't that a bit… dramatic?"
Aria didn't flinch. "Isn't drama the whole point of this event? Besides, emerald photographs beautifully. And I imagine the press will appreciate something new."
Catherine's eyes narrowed, smile still sharp. "Red is classic. Vanessa will be in Valentino—she always knows what suits her."
Aria let a beat pass, then smiled. "Red is predictable. I think green is more… dangerous. Don't you?"
The stylist stifled a laugh. Catherine's gaze sharpened. "As you wish, dear. Do remember, the gala is about the Foundation, not about individual statements."
Aria's mouth curved. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of stealing your spotlight."
Catherine turned her attention to the seamstress, voice dropping to a low whisper. Aria caught only fragments: "Hem… neckline… nothing too revealing…" The woman's control over every detail gave her away—a queen anxious about her crown.
Aria let the moment linger, then stepped down from the pedestal and retreated to the fitting room. She locked the door behind her, pressing her palm to the silk at her hip. The fabric was cool, but her pulse was hot and erratic.
Her phone buzzed—a text from Ethan. Running late. Meeting with Daniel went long. Want me to swing by for your verdict?
She typed with one hand, steady: No verdict needed. I know what I want this year.
Save me a dance, he wrote back, his digital voice warmer than the last few days had been in person.
She hesitated, then replied: Only if you promise not to step on my dress.
A beat, then: No promises.
She smiled, but it faded quickly. The window overlooked Fifth Avenue, traffic crawling, the world moving at a pace that mocked her urgency. She checked the watch again, thumb tracing the old engraving. 1,092 days.
Back in the showroom, a tailor pinned the final hem while the designer hovered. He handed her a matching clutch, the clasp a tiny serpent biting its own tail. Ouroboros. Endless cycles. She clenched her fist around it, a private joke.
"Would you like to see the jewelry options?" the assistant asked.
"Not gold," Aria replied. "Platinum. Something sharp."
A tray appeared. She selected emerald earrings and a cuff bracelet that looked like it could double as a weapon. She imagined Vanessa's face as she walked into the gala, wearing the color of Vanessa's own eyes. Check.
She changed back to her street clothes, folding her composure around her like cashmere. Outside, Catherine waited, arms crossed.
"I hope you're ready," Catherine said. "The gala is more than a party. It's tradition. Reputation is built in these rooms."
Aria met her gaze, unblinking. "I know exactly what's at stake."
A pause. Then Catherine gave the barest nod. "Good. You'll need more than a dress to survive in this family."
Aria didn't flinch. "I never intended to survive. I intend to win."
Catherine's lips twitched—a smile or a threat, impossible to tell. She turned and strode away, pearls glowing against her throat.
The driver opened the car door outside. Aria slid into the back seat, the emerald dress wrapped in tissue on her lap. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the day replay in her mind: Catherine's barbs, the seamstress's whispers, her own reflection—cold, implacable, unbreakable.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, an anonymous number: You look good in green. But red would have been safer. —A Friend
Ice threaded through her veins. She deleted the message. The game was still on, and the players were watching.
Aria squeezed the watch on her wrist. 1,092 days left. This time, she'd write the script—and wear whatever armor she wanted.
Let them watch. Let them whisper. She was ready.