Hester had spent the night in a cheap motel, the black card untouched in her pocket. She couldn’t bring herself to use it – not yet. Not until she understood the rules of this strange game.
The fluorescent lights of Mckee Management buzzed with a sound that felt like insects crawling under Hester's skin. She walked through the glass doors, her spine rigid. It had been twenty-four hours since she stood in the rain at City Hall, twenty-four hours since she became a secret billionaire's wife. But here, in this office, she was still just Hester Irwin-the fading star, the commodity.
Whispers trailed her as she passed the reception desk. The interns stopped typing. The air was thick with a performative pity that made Hester want to scream. They didn't know about the marriage. They only knew she was "struggling."
Haywood intercepted her before she could reach her locker. He looked frantic, his hair slightly disheveled, sweat beading on his upper lip. But when he saw her, he plastered on that familiar, charming smile-the smile she used to think was the sun.
"Hester, babe," he said, reaching out to grab her shoulders. "Where have you been? I've been calling you all night."
Hester flinched as his hands touched her. She turned the movement into a cough, stepping back. "Battery died," she lied, her voice flat. "I stayed at a friend's."
"You had us worried sick," Haywood said, guiding her forcefully toward his office. "Come on. We have a crisis."
He pushed the door open. Brandy Craig was sitting on the leather sofa, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She looked radiant, despite the fake tears. She was wearing a loose-fitting sweater, hiding the stomach that Hester now knew carried Haywood's child.
"Hester!" Brandy cried out, her voice high and pitchy. "Thank god you're here. It's a disaster."
"What's going on?" Hester asked, leaning against the doorframe. She kept her hands in her pockets, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the titanium card.
"I'm bloated," Brandy sniffled. "It's... water retention. Stress. I can't fit into the finale dress for tonight's show. The zipper won't go up."
Hester looked at Brandy's waist. It wasn't water retention. It was a baby bump. The audacity of the lie was breathtaking.
Haywood paced the room. "The client is furious. If Brandy doesn't walk, we lose the contract. But she can't walk looking like... that."
He stopped and looked at Hester. His eyes narrowed, calculating.
"You need to walk for her," Haywood said.
Hester stared at him. The silence stretched, tight as a drum skin. "Excuse me?"
"The theme is 'Masquerade'," Haywood explained, his hands moving excitedly. "The models are wearing full-face masks. No one will know it's you. You have the same measurements-well, you used to. You can squeeze into it."
"You want me to be her body double?" Hester asked, her voice quiet.
Brandy smirked, dropping the tissue. "It's for the agency, bestie. You're past your prime anyway. This way, you can still be useful. Think of it as... paying your dues."
Hester felt the blood pounding in her ears. They wanted to use her body to save Brandy's career. They wanted her to walk the runway, earn the applause, and let Brandy take the credit, all while they stole her money and her future.
It was the perfect trap. And it was the perfect opportunity.
Hester unclenched her fist inside her pocket. "Fine," she said.
Haywood blinked, surprised by her easy submission. "Really?"
"For the company," Hester said, deadpan. "I'll do it."
Haywood let out a breath of relief, clapping his hands. "I knew you were a team player. Go to fitting. Now."
Hester turned and walked to the dressing room. The moment the door latched, she pulled out her phone. She dialed Josie, the only junior manager who had ever treated her with respect.
"Josie," Hester whispered. "Are you near the venue?"
"Yeah, setting up. Why?"
"Get a camera crew ready. Not the agency's. Ours. I need high-definition footage of the finale walk. Focus on the shoes. Focus on the walk."
"Hester, what are you doing?" Josie asked, confusion in her voice.
"I'm taking back what's mine."
Hester hung up. She looked at the dress hanging on the rack. It was a masterpiece of haute couture-black lace, crimson silk, a corset structure that looked punishing.
She stripped down. She pulled the dress on. It didn't need to be squeezed into. It fit her like a second skin. Brandy had never been a sample size; she was commercial. Hester was high fashion. The dress zipped up with a satisfying hiss.
She picked up the mask. It was elaborate, covered in black feathers and crystals, obscuring everything from her forehead to her nose, leaving only her jaw and mouth visible.
She put it on. She looked in the mirror. The woman staring back wasn't the tired, betrayed girlfriend. She was a predator.
She sent a text to the contact number Isham had given her. Watching the show tonight?
The reply came ten seconds later. I own the network airing it.
Hester smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression.
She stepped out of the dressing room. The backstage area was chaos-hairspray, shouting, half-naked bodies running. Brandy was sitting in a makeup chair, shoving a powdered donut into her mouth.
"Try not to trip," Brandy called out, her mouth full, dusting sugar from her lips. "My reputation is on the line."
Hester didn't answer. She walked past Brandy, her stride lengthening. She felt the shift in her center of gravity. The music was starting-a heavy, thumping bass that vibrated the floorboards.
Haywood grabbed her arm one last time before she reached the curtain. "Remember. You are Brandy. Bouncy. Fun. Blow a kiss at the end."
Hester looked at him through the eyeholes of the mask. "Don't worry, Haywood. I'll be unforgettable."
The stage manager counted down. "Three. Two. One. Go."
The curtain parted. The blinding white light of the runway hit her. The roar of the crowd was a physical wall of sound.
Hester stepped out. She didn't bounce. She didn't smile. She unleashed the walk that had made her famous five years ago-the walk they had tried to bury.
