The drive back to the safe house was quiet. Dylan stared out the window, watching the city lights blur. She had bought herself time, but she had also painted a target on her back. Vance would check. He would make calls.

I have to make it real, she said to the glass.

Carter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Make what real?

The lie. I have to make people believe Garland and I are... aligned.

Carter didn't respond, which was the closest thing to encouragement she was going to get.

She pulled out her phone. The Met Gala was in three days. It was the biggest social event of the year. The entire city would be watching.

She dialed a number. Mrs. Vane, the chair of the gala committee.

Mrs. Vane, it's Dylan Maxwell.

There was a pause. Oh. Dylan. Dear. I'm afraid your invitation was... rescinded. Due to the... unpleasantness.

I know about the funds you siphoned from the charity auction last year, Mrs. Vane, Dylan said, her voice pleasant but deadly. I managed the books, remember?

Silence.

I want my ticket back, Dylan said.

Fine, Mrs. Vane hissed. But you're sitting by the kitchen. Table 40.

I don't care where I sit. Just send the QR code.

She hung up. Step one complete.

Now, the dress. All her couture was locked in an FBI evidence locker. She had nothing to wear.

She directed Carter to a warehouse in the Meatpacking District. Alessandro's studio.

Alessandro was a genius designer who had fallen out of favor because of his drug habit. He owed Dylan a favor. She had paid for his rehab twice.

He opened the metal door, looking disheveled. Dylan? You look like hell.

I need a dress, Ale. For the Met.

He laughed. I have no silk. I have no chiffon. I have nothing.

Dylan walked into the studio. It was filled with industrial junk. Rolls of black, heavy-duty construction tarp lay in the corner.

She pointed to it. That.

Alessandro looked at the tarp. That is dust cloth. For construction sites.

The theme is 'Gilded Glamour,' Dylan said. We are going to deconstruct it. We are going to show them the rot underneath the gold.

Alessandro's eyes lit up. He grabbed a pair of shears.

For the next forty-eight hours, Dylan didn't sleep. She stood still while Alessandro pinned and cut the stiff, black fabric directly onto her body. It was rough against her skin.

While he worked, she had her encrypted phone propped against a stack of books, cross-referencing the Gala's guest list with a leaked database of offshore accounts from Panama. "Planning a party or an assassination?" Alessandro asked, snipping a jagged edge near her shoulder. "A merger," she replied without looking up, her eyes tracing the connections between a board member of Brennan Media and a shell corporation in the Virgin Islands.

Back at the tower, Garland sat at his desk. Carter stood before him.

She threatened Gordon Vance with your name, Carter reported.

Garland stopped typing. He looked up. Did she?

Yes. And she is going to the Met Gala. She is wearing a dress made of... construction tarp.

Garland leaned back in his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man watching a gladiator enter the arena with a wooden sword.

Javion stepped forward. Sir, we should issue a denial. This could damage the brand. Her un-denied presence will be seen as a sign that she has leverage over you.

No, Garland said. Don't deny it.

Sir?

Clear my schedule for Monday night, Garland said. I'm going to the Gala.

But you hate the Gala, Javion protested.

I do, Garland said, turning back to his screen. But this is no longer a party. It's a press conference. And I intend to control the narrative.

The red carpet was a river of blood and flashbulbs. The air crackled with the frantic energy of a thousand cameras.

Dylan's car-a rented sedan, not a limo-pulled up to the curb. The doorman hesitated. He didn't rush to open it.

Dylan didn't wait. She pushed the door open herself.

She stepped out.

The silence that fell over the press pit was immediate.

She was wearing black. Not velvet, not silk. It was a structured, architectural chaotic mess of industrial fabric. It absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. It was jagged, sharp, and dangerous. Her makeup was severe-pale skin, dark eyes, and that signature blood-red lip.

She looked like a widow mourning the death of capitalism.

Is that... a trash bag? someone whispered.

Then, the shutters went crazy. Click-click-click-click.

Before she could take a step, a reporter from a notorious gossip site, prompted by a subtle nod from Ivana Mcknight further up the stairs, shoved a microphone in her face.

"Dylan! Is it true your father used the pension funds of widows to buy your first pony?" he shouted.

Dylan walked. She didn't smile. She moved with a predatory grace, her chin tilted up.

At the top of the stairs, blocking the entrance, stood Ivana Mcknight. She was wearing gold. So much gold she looked like a walking bullion bar. Feathers, sequins, excess.

Ivana saw Dylan and laughed. She gathered her entourage of socialites.

Oh my god, Ivana shouted, her voice carrying over the crowd. Did you get lost, Dylan? The sanitation department entrance is around the back.

The crowd tittered. A camera crew zoomed in on Dylan's face, waiting for the tears.

Dylan stopped on the step below Ivana. She looked up.

It's called deconstruction, Ivana, Dylan said, her voice calm and projecting perfectly. Although I suppose you wouldn't understand irony. You look like a deep-fried canary.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. A fashion blogger near the front typed furiously on his phone.

Ivana's face turned purple. You insolent little-

Security! Ivana shrieked. Get this trash out of here!

Before the guards could move, a hush fell over the bottom of the stairs. A heavy, respectful silence.

A Rolls Royce Phantom had pulled up.

Garland Brennan stepped out.

He was wearing a midnight blue tuxedo, cut so sharply it could slice skin. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't wave. He walked up the red carpet with the inevitability of a tide.

He reached the stairs. Ivana instantly changed her expression. She beamed, pushing her chest out.

Garland! she cooed. So good to see you!

Garland didn't even break stride. He walked past Ivana as if she were a potted plant.

He stopped next to Dylan.

He turned his head and looked at her. He looked at the black tarp dress. His eyes traveled from the hem to her face.

Dylan held her breath. This was it. He could end her right here. One look of disgust, and she was done.

Garland looked her in the eye. And then, he nodded.

It was a small movement. A microscopic dip of the chin. But in the language of power, it was a knighthood.

Nice dress, he murmured, so only she could hear. Very... economical.

Then he turned and walked into the museum.

The press went wild.

Did you see that?

Brennan acknowledged her!

They are together! It's true!

Ivana stood there, her mouth open, ignored and forgotten.

Dylan let out a breath. She had gambled everything on that nod. And she had won.

She walked past Ivana, brushing shoulders with her.

Excuse me, Dylan said softly. I have a date.

Inside the museum, the air was thick with perfume and judgment. The Great Hall had been transformed into a cocktail lounge.

Dylan grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray. Her hand was shaking again. The adrenaline from the red carpet was fading, leaving her exposed.

She stood near a pillar, scanning the room. Garland was in the VIP section, surrounded by men in gray suits. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey, looking bored.

Ivana wasn't done. She marched over, flanked by three women whose husbands had lost millions in the Maxwell scheme.

You have some nerve, Ivana hissed.

One of the women bumped into Dylan, hard. Dylan's clutch fell to the floor, spilling her cracked iPhone and a tube of drugstore lipstick.

Oops, the woman sneered. Clumsy.

Laughter. Cruel, high-school laughter.

Dylan crouched down to pick up her things. Her face burned.

A hand appeared in her vision. A man's hand, holding a silk handkerchief.

Harrison Sterling. Garland's best friend and a notorious playboy.

Allow me, Harrison said, helping her gather her things. He stood up and winked at her. That dress is genius, by the way. Garland was just telling me he liked the... structural integrity.

He said it loud enough for Ivana to hear. The women stepped back, wary.

Come with me, Harrison said. Let's look at the art.

He led Dylan toward the centerpiece of the exhibit-a massive 19th-century oil painting of a seascape.

Ivana followed, desperate to regain control. This is the Mcknight donation, she announced loudly. It's a Turner. Valued at forty million dollars.

A crowd gathered. Garland drifted over, standing at the back, swirling his drink.

Dylan looked at the painting. She squinted. She had spent four years studying art history at the Sorbonne. She knew Turners. She knew the brushstrokes, the light.

And she knew the pigments.

She stepped closer to the canvas.

Problem, Miss Maxwell? Ivana challenged. Or is it too sophisticated for you?

Dylan looked at Garland. He was watching her. His eyes were dark, intense. He was waiting.

He wanted to see if she was just a pretty face in a tarp dress, or if she had teeth.

It's a fake, Dylan said.

The chatter stopped instantly. The museum curator, standing nearby, turned pale.

Excuse me? Ivana laughed nervously. You're delusional.

"I'm not," Dylan said, her voice steady and clear. "I interned at the Sotheby's restoration department in London for a summer. This exact piece came through for appraisal. The real one. The provenance records show it was sold to a private collector in Dubai three years ago. What you have here is the Mcknight family's very expensive, forty-million-dollar tax-deductible forgery. I'd check the customs declarations from their last family trip to Geneva, curator. The FBI certainly will."

The room was silent.

Ivana looked like she was going to vomit. If the painting was fake, the tax deduction her father had claimed for the donation was fraud. Federal fraud.

Garland took a sip of his whiskey. He looked at Harrison and smirked.

Interesting, he said.

The curator cleared his throat. We... we will have to run some tests.

Ivana glared at Dylan with pure, unadulterated hatred. You will pay for this, she mouthed.

Dylan turned and walked away, heading for the sanctuary of the ladies' room. Her legs were trembling. She had just declared war on the Mcknight family.

But as she passed Garland, he didn't look away. He raised his glass to her.