Bodyguards formed a tight wedge around her, parting the sea of paparazzi that swarmed the hotel entrance. Stella ignored the shouted questions and the frantic clicking of shutters, her focus a laser beam on the open door of the waiting custom Rolls-Royce Ghost. She ducked inside, the heavy door closing behind her with a satisfying thud, sealing off the chaos.
The car pulled smoothly into the river of traffic on Fifth Avenue. For the twenty-minute drive, Stella sat in perfect stillness, the city lights painting fleeting patterns across her face. The Rolls-Royce finally slowed, gliding to a stop at the edge of the red carpet.
A valet opened her door. Stella took a single, deep breath, then swung one stiletto-clad foot out onto the crimson walkway.
She stood. The world exploded into a wall of white light. Hundreds of flashes went off at once, a silent, blinding assault. She resisted the instinct to squint, her lips curved into a serene, practiced smile. The roar of the crowd was a distant buzz, the sound of her own name being shouted from a dozen directions.
With a deliberate grace, she began to walk, the train of her Dior gown whispering against the carpet behind her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, not with the nervous energy of her past self, but with the cool assessment of a predator. And then she saw her.
Emilie Thorne. Standing near the main interview platform, dressed in a custom gown of virginal white. She was smiling her signature sweet, innocent smile for the E! News camera.
As Stella drew closer, Emilie's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of raw jealousy crossed her face before it was expertly masked. She excused herself from the interview and, gathering the skirts of her white gown, glided towards Stella, her arms open in a perfect imitation of a loving sister.
They met in the center of the red carpet, a hundred lenses swiveling to capture the reunion of Manhattan's most talked-about heiresses.
"Stella, darling! You look..." Emilie's voice was honey-sweet as she linked their arms together. "...interesting."
Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the soft flesh of Stella's inner arm, a sharp, vicious pinch hidden from the cameras.
The small, sharp pain was a lightning rod. It sent a jolt of memory through Stella—Emilie's face, illuminated by fire, her smile twisted and ugly as she held her down. The phantom smell of smoke filled her nostrils.
Stella fought back the wave of nausea. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her head just enough to meet Emilie's eyes, her own gaze flat and cold.
Emilie leaned in, her lips brushing Stella's ear, her voice a venomous whisper. "That color makes you look like a cheap escort. Did you think dressing like a whore would get Holden's attention?"
The name hit Stella like a slap. In her previous life, she had drained her fortune and her dignity for Holden—only to be pushed into the fire. The memory flashed: his cold smile, the flames. Then it was gone, leaving only cold, clear rage.
The words were identical. Every syllable, a perfect echo of the past. The confirmation settled like a block of ice in Stella's stomach.
"He's proposing to me tonight, you know," Emilie continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Right after the main course. I just didn't want you to be... surprised."
In her previous life, those words had shattered her. She had sobbed, stumbled, made a fool of herself for the cameras. Tonight, she felt nothing but contempt. Her red lips curved—slow, deliberate, dangerous.
Her calm was not the reaction Emilie had expected. A flicker of unease crossed Emilie's face. She decided to escalate. Feigning a turn to wave at a photographer, she deliberately brought the heel of her shoe down hard on the delicate tulle of Stella's train.
There was a faint ripping sound. Stella felt the sharp tug, the backward pull designed to send her sprawling.
But her body remembered. She had already braced herself, her core tight, her weight shifted. She didn't stumble. She didn't even waver.
Seeing her plan fail, Emilie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a flawless performance of shock and remorse. "Oh, my God, Stella! I am so sorry! Are you alright? You seem so... distracted."
The surrounding reporters, sensing drama, began to close in. Their microphones tilted towards them like hungry birds.
"Is everything alright, ladies?" one of them shouted.
Emilie's eyes, full of feigned concern, held a glint of triumph. She raised her voice just enough to be picked up by the nearest mics. "I'm just worried about my sister. With the news about Holden... I think she's been under a lot of stress. Maybe she's not feeling herself tonight."
The insinuation was clear, a poison dart aimed directly at Stella's reputation. She's unstable. She's crazy. She's losing her mind over a man.
Stella didn't answer. She simply looked at Emilie, a long, slow appraisal, as if seeing her for the very first time. It was a look of such profound contempt, such utter dismissal, that Emilie's performance faltered. A genuine chill traced its way down her spine.
Then, Stella turned away. Her eyes scanned the periphery and landed on a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne flutes. With a smooth, unhurried movement, she plucked one of the full glasses from the tray.
She held the crystal flute by its delicate stem, the golden liquid shimmering under the camera lights. For a fraction of a second, she remembered the last time she had held such a glass—toasting Holden's success while he and Emilie plotted her ruin. The memory sharpened her resolve. She knew Emilie was already framing her for the press. If she walked away now, the story would be broken heiress, humiliated sister. The champagne wasn't just revenge. It was the first strike.
Then, she turned back to face her sister. One step. Emilie's smile froze. Two steps. Reporters leaned in, holding their breath. Three steps. Stella stopped directly in front of Emilie, looking down at her from a full head's height. A flicker of genuine fear finally entered Emilie's eyes. She tried to step back, but the heavy skirt of her gown trapped her.
Without a word, Stella tilted her wrist.
The cold, bubbly liquid cascaded over Emilie's perfectly coiffed hair, streaming down her face and soaking the front of her pristine white dress.
