The next forty-eight hours were a blur of insanity.
Tiffany's Instagram following exploded. She posted photos of the gifts, captioning them with cryptic heart emojis and BillionaireWife. She didn't tag Gunnar, but the internet detectives did the rest.
Elayne played the role of the bitter, jealous sister perfectly. She fetched coffee. She held pincushions.
And she sabotaged everything.
"Mr. Kirk's assistant is on the phone," Meredith barked. "He wants to know about the flower arrangements."
Elayne took the phone. She walked into the pantry.
"This is Elayne," she said, pitching her voice higher, mimicking Tiffany's nasal whine. "Listen, about the flowers. I want lilies. Thousands of them. And for the appetizers... peanut satay. It's trendy."
She knew Gunnar hated lilies. And she knew, from a dossier she had read years ago, that he was deathly allergic to peanuts.
She hung up, heart pounding. She wanted him to hate the bride. She wanted him to be so disgusted he wouldn't look closely at the altar.
Across town, in the glass tower of Kirk Industries, Gunnar listened to the recording of the call.
He smirked.
"Peanuts," he said. "She's trying to kill me."
"She has claws," Gunnar noted to Cornell, a flicker of something cold and appreciative in his eyes. "I'll give her that."
"Shall I cancel the order, sir?" his assistant asked.
"No," Gunnar said, spinning his chair to look out at the city. "Let her think she's won. Cornell, swap the entire catering menu. Same dishes, different kitchen. I want to see her face at the reception when I eat the satay and don't die. Let her think she's in control."
He thought it was Elayne. He thought the woman who had kissed him in the restaurant was playing a game of brinkmanship. He admired the audacity.
"Let her have her fun," Gunnar said.
Back at the townhouse, Tiffany was having a meltdown.
"I need more followers!" she screamed. "Elayne, take a picture of me with the ring!"
Elayne snapped the photo. While Tiffany was busy editing filters, Elayne slipped into her room.
She pulled a shoe box from under the bed. Inside was her passport and a stack of cash she had skimmed from the household budget over the years.
She had booked a flight to Zurich for 11:00 AM on the wedding day.
While Tiffany was walking down the aisle, Elayne would be in the air.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired. Hollow.
"Just one more day," she whispered.
Downstairs, Tiffany was laughing. "I'm going to be the Queen of New York!"
Elayne packed her bag. You can have the crown, Tiffany. It's made of thorns.
