Blossom didn't waste time.
She marched into Andria's room two hours later, a stylist trailing behind her like a nervous pet. The stylist held a garment bag as if it contained the Crown Jewels.
"Show her," Blossom commanded, sitting on Andria's chaise lounge and crossing her legs.
The stylist unzipped the bag. The dress was a pale, sickly green. It was covered in excessive lace and ruffles, the kind of thing that looked expensive but dated.
"It brings out your eyes," the stylist lied, her voice trembling slightly. Blossom had clearly paid her well.
Andria walked over to the dress. She ran her hand down the fabric. It felt stiff. Her fingers traced the seam at the waist. It was barely held together by a few loose threads. One wrong step, one deep breath, and the whole thing would split open.
"It's beautiful," Andria said, her voice flat.
"Try it on," Blossom urged. Her eyes were fixed on the dress, anticipating the humiliation.
"Of course."
Andria took the dress and walked into the changing room. She spotted the cup of coffee she had left on the side table earlier. It was cold now, a dark, murky pool.
She didn't hesitate.
She tipped the cup. The brown liquid splashed onto the lace bodice, soaking into the fabric instantly. It looked like a grotesque wound.
"Oh no!" Andria shrieked.
She stepped out of the changing room, holding the ruined dress. "I'm so clumsy! I knocked over my coffee!"
Blossom shot up from the chaise. Her face went red. "You idiot! Do you know how much that cost?"
The stylist looked horrified, but Andria saw a flash of relief in her eyes. She wouldn't have to be responsible for the wardrobe malfunction later.
"I'm so sorry," Andria sniffled, dropping the dress on the floor. "I don't have anything else to wear..."
Blossom glared at Andria. She was furious, but she couldn't scream. Not in front of the staff. It would break her perfect, lady-like facade.
"Fine," she snapped. "Wear that old black thing in your closet. The velvet one. It's hideous, but it's better than going naked."
Andria hid her smirk behind her hand. "Thank you, Blossom."
The night of the Masquerade, the air was thick with humidity and expensive perfume.
The Dawson limousine pulled up to the Sears estate. Cameras flashed, blinding white explosions in the dark.
Blossom stepped out first. She was wearing a custom pink gown that took up half the backseat. She waved to the press, her smile practiced and wide. She clung to Garrick's arm, soaking in the attention.
Andria stepped out after them.
The black velvet dress hugged her frame. She had spent the afternoon altering it herself, lowering the back until it dipped dangerously low, exposing the sharp curve of her spine. It was simple. Stark. Mournful.
She slipped a black lace mask over her eyes. It obscured her identity, leaving only her red lips and jawline visible.
Blossom glanced back at Andria. Her nose wrinkled. "You look like you're going to a funeral."
"Maybe I am," Andria murmured.
They entered the ballroom. It was a sea of color and noise. Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of champagne.
Andria grabbed a glass and immediately drifted away from her family. She found a spot in the shadows, near a heavy velvet curtain. From here, she could see everything.
She saw him.
Duke Cato Sears stood in the center of the room. He was wearing his military dress uniform, medals gleaming under the chandelier light. He was handsome, in a classic, boring way. Square jaw. Blonde hair. Arrogant smile.
Blossom made a beeline for him. She practically threw herself into his orbit, laughing too loudly at something he said.
Cato looked bored. His eyes scanned the room, looking for an escape.
Then, his gaze landed on Andria.
She felt the weight of his stare. The black dress made her stand out against the pastels and jewels of the other women. She was an anomaly.
Andria didn't smile. She didn't wave. She met his eyes for a second, let her gaze drift over him with palpable disinterest, and then turned her back.
She sipped her champagne, counting down in her head.
Three. Two. One.
She felt a presence behind her. But it wasn't Cato.
"He's looking at you," a voice hissed.
Blossom.
She had abandoned her prey to come mark her territory. Her face was flushed with anger.
"I can't help where he looks," Andria said, not turning around.
"Stay away from him," Blossom whispered venomously. "He's out of your league."
"Gladly."
Andria saw Bianca Sears across the room. She was swaying slightly, a drink in her hand. She was heading toward the French doors that led to the pool.
The stage was set.
"I'm going to get some air," Andria said, walking away from Blossom. She headed toward the doors.
She knew Blossom would follow. She was too insecure to let Andria out of her sight.
As Andria stepped out onto the terrace, she glanced up. On the second-floor balcony, hidden in the shadows, sat a figure in a wheelchair.
He was watching.
Prince Cameron Kaufman.
Andria felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the night air. The real player had arrived.
