"And Mrs. Davis," Eleanor called out from her vanity, applying a bold, red lipstick that matched her dress. "All of my other clothes. The pale ones. Box them up. Donate them."
Mrs. Davis, back with the coffee, froze in the doorway. "All of them, madam?"
"All of them," Eleanor confirmed, not looking at her. She blotted her lips on a tissue, leaving a perfect, crimson stain. "I require a new wardrobe."
The command was absolute. Mrs. Davis, sensing the futility of argument, murmured, "Yes, Mrs. Carlisle," and backed out of the room.
Eleanor stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was a stranger. The soft, eager-to-please girl was gone, replaced by someone with eyes that held the chilling wisdom of death. The scarlet dress was a second skin, a suit of armor. She remembered Ashley White at this auction, all innocent white lace and wide-eyed helplessness, a performance that captivated everyone, especially Damian.
"Not this time," she whispered to the woman in the mirror.
An hour later, the black town car pulled up to Sotheby's. Before the driver could open her door, a dozen camera flashes went off, reporters catching a glimpse of the impossible color through the tinted window.
When she stepped out, the scarlet silk flowed around her ankles. A collective gasp went through the small crowd. This wasn't the demure Mrs. Carlisle they knew. This was someone else. The flashes became a blinding strobe.
Up on the second-floor VIP mezzanine, Kian Sterling paused, a glass of whiskey halfway to his lips. He leaned against the railing, his gaze drawn to the commotion below.
"Who is that?" he asked the man beside him.
Felix Beaumont followed his gaze and let out a long, appreciative whistle. "That, my friend, is Eleanor Sinclair. Or as you know her, Mrs. Damian Carlisle." He grinned. "Looks like she's decided to come out and play."
Kian's eyes narrowed. He'd only ever heard of her as a pretty, passive accessory to the Carlisle empire. The woman down there, moving through the flashes with unnerving calm, was anything but passive.
"I bet Damian is having a heart attack," Felix chuckled. "He hates this kind of attention."
As if on cue, Eleanor's gaze swept across the lobby and landed on her husband. Damian Carlisle stood near the main staircase, his face a thundercloud. Attached to his arm was Ashley White, dressed in a simple white dress, the very picture of innocent purity.
"Damian, everyone's staring," Ashley murmured, her fingers tightening on his sleeve. "Is Eleanor okay?"
The question was pitched as concern, but it was a barb meant to frame Eleanor's behavior as unstable. Damian's jaw tightened. He hated public scenes. He hated being upstaged. He hated losing control.
"Hayes," he snapped to his assistant. "Go and tell her to stop making a scene."
Ashley added, her eyes wide with faux worry, "Maybe I shouldn't have come. I don't want to cause trouble between you and Mrs. Carlisle."
"This has nothing to do with you," Damian said, his voice clipped, though he gave her hand a brief, reassuring pat.
Before Hayes could take a step, Eleanor began to move. She cut a swath through the crowded lobby, a river of scarlet parting the sea of black and grey tuxedos. Conversations faltered. She walked with a slow, deliberate grace, her eyes fixed on her husband and his companion.
The reporters' cameras whirred, capturing the impending collision.
Damian watched her approach. The familiar adoration that had always softened her gaze was gone. In its place was a cool, unreadable distance that, from the way his brow furrowed, seemed to unsettle him more than any argument ever had.
