The Prescott Manor ballroom was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the sea of Manhattan's elite. A massive champagne tower stood in the center, catching the light like liquid diamonds.
Kennedy walked into the room. She wore a plunging red couture gown.
Sterling wore a custom tuxedo. His chin was tilted up in a permanent state of arrogance.
The crowd parted for them. They walked to the black Steinway grand piano near the balcony doors. They sat side-by-side and began to play a four-hand duet.
The music was technically perfect. The surrounding socialites stopped talking and clapped politely when they finished.
Kennedy stood up, pinching the skirt of her red dress to curtsy. She soaked in the adoring stares.
A group of wealthy women swarmed them.
"You two are absolutely flawless," one woman gushed. Then, she leaned in, lowering her voice. "Is it true? Did your father actually bring that feral sister of yours back from the country? I heard she doesn't even know how to use a knife and fork. What a disgrace."
Sterling's jaw tightened. A look of pure disgust flashed across his face.
"She is a violent liability," Sterling said loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd heard him. "I am having my lawyers draft the paperwork to dissolve that ridiculous childhood engagement immediately. I won't have my name tied to trash."
At that exact moment, the heavy oak double doors of the ballroom were pulled open by two guards.
The low hum of conversation near the entrance died instantly. The silence rippled through the massive room like a shockwave.
Aubree stepped over the threshold.
She wore a minimalist, black velvet haute couture gown. It clung to her athletic frame like liquid shadow. The slit ran high up her thigh, revealing the sharp, deadly curve of her leg. She wore no jewelry. Her slate-blue eyes swept over the room with absolute, chilling indifference, instantly overpowering all the gaudy finery in the room.
Kennedy's breath hitched. Her fingers dug painfully into Sterling's bicep. The triumphant smirk vanished, replaced by raw, burning jealousy.
Sterling stared. His mouth parted slightly. He had never seen a woman radiate such terrifying, predatory beauty.
"Who is that?" a woman whispered loudly.
Pippa, Kennedy's best friend, squinted. Her eyes went wide. "Oh my god. That's Aubree."
The ballroom erupted into frantic whispers. The feral country girl was supposed to be a joke. Instead, she looked like she owned the building.
Aubree ignored the hundreds of staring eyes. She walked with slow, deliberate steps toward the champagne tower. She picked up a crystal flute of Dom Pérignon.
Kennedy felt her spotlight dying. She shot a desperate, vicious glare at Pippa.
Pippa nodded. She grabbed a full glass of dark red wine from a passing waiter. She marched aggressively toward Aubree's back.
Sterling frowned. He stepped forward, raising his hand to call security. He wanted Aubree thrown out before she ruined his night.
Aubree stood facing the tower. She didn't turn around.
Pippa closed the distance. When she was two feet away, she intentionally twisted her ankle. She let out a fake gasp and hurled the glass of red wine directly at the back of Aubree's pristine black velvet dress.
The dark liquid flew through the air in a violent arc. The surrounding socialites let out gleeful, suppressed gasps, waiting for the show.
