The next morning, a sharp blade of sunlight pierced through the grimy attic skylight and struck Ginny directly across the eyes.
She opened them instantly. Her mind was crystal clear.
She lay motionless on the thin mattress, ears tuning into the sounds of the house below. The floorboards just outside her door creaked—a soft, shifting pressure. Someone was standing right there.
Ginny threw the thin blanket aside. She placed her bare feet on the cold wooden floor without a sound, crossed the small room, and pressed her ear flat against the rough grain of the door.
Two voices were whispering on the other side.
"I still don't get it," a young maid whispered, her voice high and reedy. "Why did the Master bring that illegitimate girl back now? Madam Matilda hates her."
"Keep your voice down," Iris hissed. "It's because of Miss Coretta. She threw an absolute fit last night."
"A fit? About what?"
Iris let out a low, cruel laugh. "About the marriage arrangement with the Parks family. She locked herself in her room and screamed that she would rather die than marry Bedford Parks. Everyone in Silicon Valley knows what he is. A monster. Severe OCD, violent—he beats people half to death if they touch his things. He's a complete psycho."
"So... the Master brought the new girl back to take her place?"
"Exactly." Iris's sneer was audible. "She's the scapegoat. She'll marry the maniac, and Miss Coretta keeps her perfect life. The country girl will probably be dead within a year."
Behind the door, Ginny's breath caught and held. The jagged memories of her past life slammed into perfect alignment. The ancient, iron-clad business pact between the Steele and Parks families demanded that a Steele daughter marry the Parks heir. Coretta had refused the terrifying Bedford, and so the family had dragged Ginny out of the trailer park to serve as the sacrificial lamb.
Bedford.
The name hit her sternum like a sledgehammer. The memory of the warehouse violently overlaid her vision—the phantom heat of the flames, Bedford's blood-streaked face pressing against her charred skin, the wet, sickening crunch of his spine snapping as he shielded her from the falling beam.
I love you.
Ginny pressed her palm hard against her chest. Her heart was beating so fast it ached. The maids were calling him a monster. They thought she was being sent to slaughter.
They had no idea. No idea at all.
A fierce, possessive heat flooded her veins. Her eyes ignited with a dark, manic intensity. He wasn't a monster. He was hers. And this time, she was going to protect him.
Ginny stepped back from the door, grabbed the brass handle, and yanked it open.
Iris and the young maid jumped back with sharp, squeaking gasps of terror.
Ginny stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with dark, lethal energy.
"Get out," she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous growl.
The two women didn't hesitate. They turned and practically threw themselves down the narrow stairs, tripping over their own feet to escape her gaze.
Ginny slammed the door shut. The walls shuddered.
She walked to the corner where her battered canvas duffel bag sat and knelt on the floor. She pulled the heavy brass zipper open and dug past cheap t-shirts and worn jeans until her fingertips found the thick seam at the very bottom. She worked her fingernail into the fabric, found the hidden zipper pull, and yanked it across.
Ginny reached into the false bottom and pulled out a heavy, flat object wrapped tightly in a black opaque garment bag. She stood and laid it on the bed. She unzipped the plastic cover with careful, reverent hands.
Inside lay a dress. It was not something bought from a boutique. It was originally an oversized, forgotten vintage gown that had belonged to her mother, Anjanette—salvaged from a thrift bin near the trailer park. Using the master-level tailoring skills she had honed as the ghost designer for Paris's top luxury houses in her past life, Ginny had spent three sleepless nights secretly deconstructing and hand-rebuilding the garment. She had transformed the dated, voluminous relic into a breathtaking, thoroughly modern silhouette.
She ran her fingertips over the fabric. Heavy silk crepe in the deepest, purest black. It felt like liquid obsidian under her skin—a testament to her meticulous craftsmanship, her ability to transform discarded scraps into high-fashion armor.
Ginny picked up the wooden hanger and hung the dress on the handle of the rickety wardrobe. She walked to the small, dirty window and looked down.
Three stories below, the vast back lawn of the Steele estate was swarming with workers. Massive crystal chandeliers were being hoisted into the branches of ancient oak trees. Caterers were assembling a ten-tier champagne tower. Florists wove cascades of white orchids through gilded trellises. The entire estate was being transformed into a glittering stage for Matilda's birthday banquet.
Ginny knew exactly what Coretta was planning. Coretta was waiting for the country rat to stumble down those marble stairs in some cheap, humiliating outfit, ready to be devoured by the vicious whispers of high society.
Ginny's lips curled into a sharp, dangerous smile.
She looked back at the black dress hanging in the shadows. Tonight, she wasn't going to survive the banquet. She was going to conquer it. And she was going to wait for the so-called monster to walk through the doors.
