Upstairs, the drama of Catherine's supposed collapse had subsided as quickly as it had begun. A perfunctory visit from the family doctor, who diagnosed nothing more than a 'moment of emotional distress,' had ended the performance. Now, resting on a chaise lounge, her earlier frailty had curdled into a potent, simmering resentment. Catherine had been helped to her room by the maid, claiming "heart palpitations." It was a dramatic performance, but it served its purpose—Olivia was now fully energized, her grief turning into a burning desire for revenge.
"Mom, how could she do this to you?" Olivia asked, pacing the floor of Catherine's sitting room. "She's a monster."
Catherine lay on the chaise lounge, a cold compress on her forehead. "She is unnatural. She needs to be put in her place."
Olivia stopped pacing. A crafty look crossed her face. "The Sterling charity gala is this weekend."
Catherine looked up. "What about it?"
"Well," Olivia said, feigning innocence, "I'm sure Nora doesn't have anything appropriate to wear. She can't show up in farm clothes."
Catherine frowned. "That would be a disaster. The press will be there."
"I was thinking," Olivia said, her voice sweet, "I could lend her my old Chanel gown. The one from two years ago. It's a bit out of style, but it's better than nothing. It would show how generous we are, trying to help her fit in."
Catherine sat up, the compress falling to the floor. She understood immediately. In the world of high fashion, wearing last season's gown to a major event was social suicide. It signaled that you were poor, out of touch, and insignificant.
"Olivia, darling," Catherine smiled, "that is a wonderful idea."
Over the following days, Catherine and Olivia worked in tandem. Catherine petitioned Edward relentlessly, arguing that keeping Olivia locked away during the most important social event of the season would raise more questions than it answered. "The press will notice her absence," she insisted, her voice dripping with maternal concern. "People will talk. Do you want rumors spreading about our family?"
Edward, worn down by days of his wife's persistence and aware that the gala was indeed a public relations necessity, finally relented. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped. "She may attend the gala. But the grounding remains otherwise. No Connor. No outings. She will behave herself, or there will be consequences."
Catherine kissed his cheek. "Of course, darling. She'll be a perfect angel."
Olivia was thrilled. She could still attend the biggest party of the season. And she could still execute her plan.
That afternoon, Catherine knocked on the door of the master bedroom.
Nora opened it. She was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, reading a book on Renaissance architecture.
Catherine pushed past her, carrying a garment bag. She tossed it onto the bed.
"Here," Catherine said, her voice hard. "Olivia insisted you wear this to the gala. It's her old dress. Be grateful."
Nora unzipped the bag. Inside was a Chanel cocktail dress. It was elegant, but the cut was distinctly dated. In a room full of haute couture, it would scream "hand-me-down."
Nora recognized the trap instantly. In her time, wearing the wrong colors or fabrics to a court function could mean banishment—or worse.
She looked at Catherine, a thoughtful expression on her face. "It's lovely. But..."
"But what?" Catherine snapped. "You don't like it?"
"I do," Nora said quickly, her eyes widening with feigned concern. "It's just... Mother, I couldn't help but overhear your call with the stylist this afternoon. You mentioned something about a 'Renaissance' theme for the decor. I only worry that this lovely dress... might clash. I would hate to be the one to disrupt the perfect picture of the family."
She hit the exact right note. The fear of public embarrassment.
Catherine hesitated. "Are you sure about the theme?"
"Positive," Nora said. She walked over to her desk and grabbed her tablet. She pulled up a series of images from recent European fashion shows—gowns with intricate gold embroidery, rich velvet textures, and classical silhouettes.
"Look at these," Nora said, pointing at the screen. "Designers like Giambattista Valli and Schiaparelli are doing this look right now. If I wear the Chanel, I'll look like I don't belong."
Catherine stared at the images. The gowns were breathtaking. And incredibly expensive.
Nora pointed to a specific Schiaparelli gown. It was a masterpiece of gold thread and silk, inspired by a Medici portrait. "This one, for instance. The embroidery is exquisite. If I wore this, people wouldn't just see a girl from Montana. They would see the power and taste of the Beaumont family."
She looked at Catherine, her expression earnest. "They would see your choice, Mother. They would know that you spared no expense to present your daughter properly."
Catherine's eyes gleamed. The idea of showing up the other society matrons with a stunning, themed gown was too tempting. Her vanity overpowered her malice.
She snatched the tablet from Nora's hand. "This one?"
"Yes," Nora said softly. "But it's very expensive. Maybe the Chanel is safer—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Catherine interrupted, her pride stung. "If we are going to do this, we will do it right."
She pulled out her phone and dialed her personal stylist. "Claire? Yes. I need a gown. Schiaparelli. The gold embroidery piece from the winter collection. Yes, the runway prototype. Overnight it to the estate. Money is no object."
She hung up and glared at Nora. "You better not disappoint me."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Nora said, smiling demurely as Catherine swept out of the room.
Nora looked at the empty garment bag on the bed. Olivia's plan to humiliate her had just resulted in Nora getting a fifty-thousand-dollar custom gown.
She picked up the garment bag and hung it in the closet, next to the empty hangers that were waiting for their new occupant.
