The Dior boutique on 57th Street was a cathedral of silk and champagne. The private haute couture salon was bathed in soft light, the mirrors reflecting a thousand versions of luxury.
Chloe stood on the velvet platform, staring at her reflection. The midnight blue velvet gown hugged her curves, the skirt flowing like a liquid night sky. Tiny crystals were hand-stitched along the bodice, catching the light with every breath she took. She had helped design this dress. It was supposed to be her armor for the Met Gala.
"Stunning," Margaret Finch, the client director, breathed, adjusting a fold of the skirt. "Absolutely stunning."
Sloane Morrow, Bentley's younger sister, clapped her hands from the velvet settee. She was a whirlwind of blonde hair and sharp opinions, the only Morrow who didn't treat Chloe like a ghost. "Chloe, you look like a badass queen! Bentley is going to swallow his tongue."
Chloe offered a tight smile. She didn't care about Bentley's tongue. She cared about getting through the night.
The heavy doors of the salon swung open.
Bentley walked in. He was still in his suit, his tie loosened. But he wasn't alone. A woman stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face.
Chloe's smile vanished. Sloane stopped clapping, her face hardening.
"What the hell is this?" Sloane snapped, standing up. "Bentley, are you insane?"
Bentley ignored his sister. His eyes swept over Chloe in the blue gown, a flicker of something-possessiveness? regret?-crossing his face before it smoothed out. He turned to the woman beside him. "It's okay," he said gently.
The woman reached up and removed her hat.
Chloe felt the floor drop out from under her. It was the face from the photo. The face from the hospital bed. Blair Walton. She looked fragile, her skin pale, her eyes wide and wet. She looked like a broken doll version of Chloe.
"Are you Chloe?" Blair asked, her voice soft and trembling. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. Bentley said it was okay..."
"Shut up," Sloane spat, stepping off the platform. "Don't play the victim with us. You've been playing dead for years!"
"Sloane!" Bentley's voice cracked like a whip. "That's enough. Blair was in an accident. She was in a coma. She's recovering."
Blair shrank back against Bentley, her lower lip trembling. "Please don't be mad at her. It's my fault. I shouldn't have come back..."
Chloe watched the performance. The trembling lip. The wide eyes. It was manipulative. It was pathetic. And Bentley was eating it up.
"So this is the 'friend' you've been visiting in the hospital?" Chloe asked, her voice dangerously calm.
Bentley met her gaze, his jaw tight. "Yes. She needs support right now."
Blair's eyes drifted to the midnight blue gown. Her expression shifted from fear to longing. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "It looks like the night sky. It reminds me of the dress I wore to the gala... before the accident."
She let go of Bentley and walked toward the platform. She reached out a pale, thin hand to touch the velvet skirt.
Sloane slapped her hand away. "Don't touch her."
Blair gasped, pulling her hand to her chest. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Bentley..."
Bentley was at her side in an instant, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He glared at Sloane, then looked up at Chloe. The coldness in his eyes was absolute.
"Chloe, give her the dress."
The silence in the salon was deafening. Margaret Finch looked like she wanted to sink into the carpet. Sloane looked like she wanted to murder someone.
"What?" Chloe asked, the word barely a whisper.
"Blair wants it," Bentley said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You can have another one made. She's been through hell. It's just a dress."
It's just a dress. The words hit Chloe like a slap. It wasn't just a dress. It was her dignity. It was the last shred of respect she had clung to in this marriage.
"Please, I don't want it," Blair sobbed, burying her face in Bentley's chest. "Don't fight over me."
"You're not fighting over her," Chloe said, her voice rising. "You're erasing me."
"Chloe." Bentley stepped forward, his voice low and threatening. "Don't be selfish. Give her the dress."
Chloe stared at him. She looked at the man she had married. The man who had held her hand and promised her the world. He was a stranger. He was a bully.
"Fine," Chloe said.
Sloane gasped. "Chloe, no!"
Chloe reached up and unclasped the crystal earrings, dropping them into Margaret's waiting hands. She unzipped the side of the gown. She didn't care that she was standing in her underwear in front of everyone. She didn't care about the shame. She just wanted the poison off her skin.
She stepped out of the midnight blue velvet, leaving it in a puddle on the platform. She put on her street clothes, her movements slow and deliberate.
She walked past Bentley, past Blair, past the tears and the manipulation. She didn't look back.
"Chloe!" Bentley called after her, sounding confused.
She kept walking. The dress was theirs. The lie was theirs. She was done playing dress-up in a dead woman's clothes.
