Months later, Kristy stood in the defendant's box, the orange of her jumpsuit a jarring slash of color in the somber courtroom.
Flashes from the press gallery exploded like silent gunshots. They had already convicted her in the headlines: "The Social Climber Who Killed for a Fortune."
Her stepmother, Janis Edwards, sat in the witness stand, dabbing at crocodile tears. "Kristy was always... intense," she sobbed, her voice carrying through the hushed room. "She would do anything for money."
As if by accident, Janis mentioned that the scandal had sent the Hill Corporation's stock into a freefall. The company was on the verge of filing for bankruptcy protection.
Kristy's lawyer leaned in and whispered the news. Her father, Victor Hill, had suffered a massive heart attack after seeing the news reports. He was dead.
The world tilted. The floor seemed to drop away beneath her feet. A wave of darkness washed over her, and she swayed, gripping the wooden railing to keep herself from collapsing.
Her eyes, devoid of light, drifted to the gallery.
She met Felice's gaze. Felice, sitting beside Caden, looked radiant. She saw Kristy's devastation and a small, cruel smile touched her lips. She formed a single, silent word.
"Oops."
Caden didn't even glance her way. He was completely absorbed in Felice, as if the woman on trial was a stranger.
The judge's voice was a distant drone. "...manslaughter in the first degree...sentenced to a minimum of three years in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility..."
She couldn't hear the rest. Her father was dead. Her family was ruined. Her life was over.
Her world had collapsed.
The heavy iron gate of Bedford Hills clanged shut behind her, the sound echoing with a grim finality.
Three years passed in a blur of gray walls, bitter coffee, and the constant, low hum of prison life. The softness faded from her face, replaced by a sharp, watchful stillness. The fire in her eyes had dimmed, but it had never gone out. It still smoldered, waiting.
The day of her release, the sun was blindingly bright. She walked out of the gates in a set of worn, faded clothes, carrying nothing but the few dollars the prison gave her.
No one was there to meet her.
She turned back for one last look at the prison’s towering, barbed-wire fences. Her hands clenched into tight fists. Three names echoed through her mind, forming a silent vow.
Felice Velazquez. Caden Sharpe. Janis Edwards.
She caught a Greyhound bus heading into the city. As it crossed the Queensboro Bridge, the familiar Manhattan skyline rose before her. The city hadn't changed, but everything that had been hers in it was gone.
At a convenience store, she spent her last few dollars on a newspaper. Her eyes scanned the pages, hungry for information.
She found them in the business section. A glossy photo of Caden and Felice, smiling. The headline read: "Sharpe-Velazquez Engagement Unites Commerce and Couture." Felice had launched her own fashion label and was being hailed as a design prodigy.
Kristy's breath caught. She stared at the dress in the photo, a signature piece from Felice's new collection.
It was from her senior thesis sketchbook, a design she had poured her heart into.
The rage was so intense it made her dizzy. Felice hadn't just stolen her fiancé and her freedom. She had stolen her dreams, her very talent.
In a small corner of the page, a brief article caught her eye. The true head of the Sharpe family, the enigmatic Fount Sharpe, was hosting a private gala at The Plaza Hotel. Tonight.
An idea, reckless and desperate, took root in her mind. Fount Sharpe. He was the apex of the family, the one even Caden feared. If she could get to him, expose the truth, or even find some leverage...
But reality crashed down on her. She was an ex-convict in worn-out clothes, with less than ten dollars to her name. She couldn't even get past the doorman.
She walked into the first pawn shop she saw. With trembling fingers, she unclasped the thin platinum chain from around her neck. It was the last gift her father had ever given her.
With the few hundred dollars she received, she found a thrift store. She carefully selected a simple, elegant black dress and a pair of worn but serviceable heels.
In the quiet of a public restroom, she washed her face, pulled her hair back, and changed. The woman in the mirror was a stranger—pale, thin, but with eyes that burned like embers.
Night had fallen. She took a deep breath and walked out onto Fifth Avenue, the lights of The Plaza Hotel glittering.
She smoothed down the front of her dress, lifted her chin, and walked towards the revolving glass doors.
