My mother-in-law threw my suitcase onto the rain-soaked lawn less than twenty-four hours after I buried her son.

The afternoon before the gala, I took my first step into the public eye since the funeral.

I didn't take Terrence’s vintage Aston Martin or hire a limousine. I drove my aging, silver Honda Civic into the heart of Chevy Chase, parking it directly between a gleaming Bentley Bentayga and a matte-black Porsche Cayenne outside *Maison Delacroix*, the premier haute-couture boutique in the capital.

Before Terrence died, Eleanor had made a point of embarrassing me here. On our second anniversary, Terrence had given me a gift certificate to select an evening gown for an embassy ball. When Eleanor found out, she had personally phoned Madame Delacroix, instructing the staff to guide me toward the "off-the-rack sale items in the back corridor so the girl doesn't embarrass our family line." I had left the boutique in tears that day, choosing instead to wear a simple black dress I bought at Nordstrom.

Today, I pushed open the glass doors of Maison Delacroix wearing tailored black slacks, an ivory silk blouse, and Terrence’s gray cashmere sweater draped loosely over my shoulders.

A young sales associate glanced up from an iPad behind the marble counter. Her eyes traveled from my unadorned wrists to my simple leather flats, and her expression cooled instantly.

"Can I help you find something specific, miss?" she asked, her tone carrying the unmistakable chill reserved for people who clearly couldn't afford the air conditioning. "Our bespoke pieces require a six-week booking window."

Before I could reply, the velvet curtains of the private fitting suite parted.

Chloe Washington stepped out.

She was wearing a backless emerald-green silk column gown that trailed behind her like liquid jade. She looked radiant, arrogant, and unmistakably triumphant. Behind her walked Julian Ashford, holding a flute of champagne, looking every bit the bored, entitled heir with his slicked-back blond hair and loafers without socks.

Chloe froze when her eyes landed on me. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered across her face, quickly replaced by cruel amusement.

"Well, well," Chloe purred, gliding across the Persian rug toward me, her heels clicking against the hardwood. "Julian, look who found their way out of the gutter."

Julian leaned against the counter, smirking. "The nurse. Did you come here looking for uniform scrubs, Audrey? I think there’s a medical surplus store three blocks down."

The sales associate immediately stood taller, realizing she had an elite audience to appease. "If this person is bothering you, Miss Washington, I can have security escort her out."

"No, no, darling, wait," Chloe said, waving a manicured hand. "Let’s be charitable. Audrey, did my brother’s life insurance finally clear? What did it pay out—enough for a nice scarf?"

I stood perfectly still, watching her. I remembered holding Chloe’s hand two years ago in an emergency room after she had totaled her sports car while intoxicated. I remembered staying awake for twenty-four hours straight, cleaning the blood and vomit from her hair, lying to the police to protect her from a criminal record because Terrence had begged me to keep his little sister safe.

*“You’re the only real sister I have, Audrey,”* she had sobbed that night.

Now, she stood in front of me, laughing at my grief.

"Chloe," I said evenly, keeping my hands resting lightly in my pockets. "The emerald dress suits you. But you should probably ensure the zipper is reinforced. You have a habit of coming apart under pressure."

Chloe’s smile vanished. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I said softly.

Julian stepped forward, his chest puffing out beneath his tailored blazer. "Watch your mouth, Audrey. You're talking to the future Mrs. Ashford. Your fifteen minutes of social climbing ended the second Terrence’s casket hit the dirt. If you had any dignity left, you’d take your little mud-soaked album and crawl back to whatever low-income hospital ward you crawled out of."

"Julian," I said, turning my gaze to him. "Your father’s maritime firm recently lost its bunkering license at the Port of Baltimore, didn't it?"

Julian stopped dead. The color drained from his face with terrifying speed. "How... how do you know about that?"

"I read the trade journals," I said mildly. "It must be stressful, needing Eleanor’s capital injection so desperately that you’re willing to play the loyal attack dog for her daughter."

"Get out," Chloe hissed, her face contorting with sudden rage. "Get out of here before I call the police and tell them you’re stalking me!"

"There’s no need to call anyone, Chloe," a crisp, European voice cut through the room.

Madame Delacroix herself, an elegant woman in her late sixties with silver hair pulled into a severe chignon, emerged from the back atelier. She didn't look at Chloe. She didn't look at Julian.

Her eyes fixed instantly on me, and then on the discreet platinum signet ring I wore on my right pinky finger—the signet ring of Bellamy Steward’s principal trustee, which Daniel had delivered that morning.

Madame Delacroix’s posture shifted instantly into deep, deferential respect. "Madame Bellamy," she said, using my maiden name with flawless poise. "Your private salon has been prepared on the second floor. The archival pieces brought in from Paris this morning are waiting for your inspection."

Chloe blinked, stunned. "Madame Delacroix, what are you talking about? That’s Audrey! She’s my brother’s penniless widow!"

Madame Delacroix turned slowly toward Chloe, her gaze withering. "Miss Washington. You are currently three months delinquent on your personal couture account with this house. If you speak to my most esteemed client in that tone again, I will not only cancel your fitting for the St. Jude's Benefit, I will personally invoice your mother’s office for your outstanding balance before the close of business today."

The boutique went dead silent.

Julian stared at me, his eyes darting between Madame Delacroix and the quiet confidence in my posture.

Chloe looked as though she had been slapped. "You... you're paying this woman?"

"I don't need to pay anyone to treat me with dignity, Chloe," I said quietly, taking a step toward the private elevator. I paused beside her, leaning in close enough that she could smell Terrence’s sandalwood cologne on my sweater. "Enjoy your emerald gown tonight. Wear it like armor. Because tomorrow, you’re going to need it."