Inside the boutique, the air smelled of lavender and money.

Daphne stood in front of a three-way mirror. She was wearing a suit. Not a boring beige office suit.

It was red. Crimson. Blood red.

The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, nipping in at her waist and flaring out. The pants were wide-legged and powerful.

She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like a victim. She looked dangerous.

The manager walked over, holding an iPad. Her expression was grave.

"Mr. Bernard thought you should see this," she said gently.

Daphne took the tablet.

It was a live stream. Kandice Rose.

Kandice was sitting on a beige sofa, clutching a tissue. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"I tried," Kandice sobbed, wiping a tear that wasn't there. "I tried to be a sister to her. But she was always so... jealous."

Daphne's grip on the iPad tightened.

"She tried to seduce Campbell," Kandice whispered, looking directly into the camera. "While I was in the hospital recovering. She tried to steal him."

It was a lie. A blatant, verifiable, disgusting lie. Kandice had been in the hospital for a nose job, not an illness. And Daphne had been engaged to Campbell for four years.

But the comments were scrolling by so fast they were a blur.

Die Daphne.

Ungrateful brat.

Team Kandice.

Daphne's hands shook. The red suit suddenly felt like a costume.

A notification popped up at the top of the screen. An email.

From: ABT Board of Directors.

Subject: Immediate Suspension Pending Investigation.

Daphne tapped it open.

...due to conduct unbecoming of a principal dancer... moral turpitude clause... effective immediately.

Her breath hitched.

Her career was her life. It was the only thing that was truly hers. And Kandice was taking that too.

The manager watched her sympathetically. "Water, Ms. Flynn?"

Daphne stared at the screen.

Silence wasn't working. Taking the high road wasn't working. It was killing her.

She recalled Fiona's words: Use the weapon.

She handed the iPad back to the manager. Her hand was steady now.

"I'll take the suit," she said. Her voice was ice cold. "And the black dress. And the heels. The highest ones you have."

"Of course."

Daphne pulled out the Black AMEX.

She swiped it.

Beep.

APPROVED.

The sound was intoxicating. It was the sound of power.

She pulled out her phone and called Charlton.

He answered on the first ring. "Are you okay?"

"Did you see Kandice's video?" she asked.

"I'm having it taken down for defamation as we speak," Charlton replied. "My legal team is on it."

"No," Daphne stopped him. "Leave it up."

"Leave it?" Charlton sounded surprised.

"I want everyone to see her lie," Daphne said. She looked at herself in the mirror. The red suit blazed. "So when I crush her, they know exactly why."

She took a deep breath.

"I'm in, Charlton. I'll marry you. I'll do the show."

There was a pause on the line. She heard him exhale, a long, shaky sound that sounded like relief.

"Good choice, Mrs. Bernard," he said. His voice was thick with emotion she couldn't place. "I'll pick you up in twenty."

Daphne waited on the curb. She was wearing the red suit. She had pulled her hair back into a severe, sleek bun.

An engine roared.

A sleek, silver Aston Martin pulled up to the curb. It looked like a missile on wheels.

Charlton stepped out. He was wearing a fresh tuxedo, crisp and perfect.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened slightly. He looked her up and down, lingering on the sharp lapels of the suit.

He opened the passenger door.

"Red suits you," he said. "It's aggressive."

"I'm done being passive," Daphne replied, sliding into the low leather seat.

Charlton got in and buckled up. "Where to first?"

"ABT," Daphne said. "I need to clear my locker before they throw my things out."

Charlton nodded. He didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't. He just put the car in gear and drove.

They wove through traffic toward Lincoln Center. The silence in the car was comfortable, heavy with shared purpose.

Daphne's phone rang.

It was connected to the car's Bluetooth. The name CAMPBELL flashed on the dashboard screen.

Charlton saw it. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

"You can answer," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't mind."

Daphne pressed 'Answer' on the dashboard.

"Daphne, finally," Campbell's voice filled the cabin. It was patronizing, annoyed. "Stop this tantrum."

Daphne stared at the dashboard.

"I saw you used the AMEX at the pharmacy," Campbell continued. "It declined. You're broke, Daphne."

Daphne flinched. He was tracking her. He was watching her fail.

"Come to the hotel," Campbell said, his voice softening into a fake concern. "I can help you with ABT. I know people on the board. We can fix this."

It was a bribe. He wanted her as a mistress. He wanted to keep her on the side while he married Kandice.

Charlton's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

Daphne looked at Charlton. Then she looked at the phone.

"I don't need your help, Campbell," she said. Her voice was steady. "I have a new manager."

"Who?" Campbell scoffed. "That loser agent of yours?"

"No," Daphne said clearly. "My fiancé."

Silence on the line.

"Fiancé? Who?" Campbell laughed nervously. "You don't have a fiancé."

"Charlton Bernard," Daphne dropped the bomb.

"Charlton?" Campbell's voice went up an octave. "The guy you friend-zoned in high school? He's a joke, Daphne. He's a mess."

Charlton didn't say a word. He just kept driving, his eyes fixed on the road, but his grip on the wheel was lethal.

"He's the man I'm marrying," Daphne said. "Goodbye, Campbell."

She pressed the red button.

The call ended.

The car was silent. The engine purred.

Charlton looked over at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and burning with something that looked like pride.

"You enjoyed that," he noted.

Daphne leaned back in the seat. A slow, genuine smile formed on her lips.

"I really did," she admitted.

They pulled up to the curb at Lincoln Center.

It was a zoo.

Paparazzi were swarming the entrance. News vans were parked illegally.

"How did they know?" Daphne asked.

"Kandice leaked your schedule," Charlton deduced instantly. "She knew you'd come for your things."

He turned off the engine.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his arm.

Daphne took a deep breath. She put on her sunglasses. She straightened her spine, engaging her core like she was about to step onto stage for Swan Lake.

"Ready."

She took his arm.

They stepped out.

The flashbulbs went crazy. A wall of white light. A cacophony of shouting.

Charlton didn't flinch. He guided her through the crowd like a bulldozer in a tuxedo. He kept his body between her and the cameras.

A reporter with a slimy grin shoved a microphone forward.

"Is it true you're a homewrecker, Ms. Flynn?"

Charlton stopped.

He turned to the camera. He pulled Daphne close, his hand splayed wide on her waist, possessive and protective.

His eyes were cold steel.

"Ms. Flynn is my fiancée," he growled. The sound was low and dangerous. "Watch your mouth."

The crowd gasped. The shutter clicks went into overdrive.

Charlton turned and swept her into the building.

The silence inside the studio was deafening.

Daphne walked down the familiar hallway. Other dancers were stretching. They stopped. They stared. Some whispered. No one said hello.

Daphne walked to her locker.

Her nameplate-Daphne Flynn, Principal-had already been removed. The sticky residue remained.

It hurt more than the glass in her foot.

She opened the locker. She packed her pointe shoes. Her leg warmers. Her lucky rosin box.

Madame Dubois, the artistic director, walked out of her office.

She stopped when she saw them.

"Daphne," Madame said stiffly. "This is... unfortunate."

"It's a misunderstanding, Madame," Daphne tried one last time. "The allegations are false."

"The Board has spoken," Madame said, checking her watch. "We cannot have the drama. It distracts from the art."

Charlton stepped forward. He towered over the petite French woman.

"When she's cleared," Charlton said, his voice echoing in the hallway, "you'll beg her back. And it will cost you double."

Madame looked at Charlton. She recognized the money. She recognized the power. She swallowed nervously.

"We shall see, Mr. Bernard." Madame turned and walked away.

Daphne zipped up her bag. She slung it over her shoulder.

She looked around the studio. The barre where she had bled. The floor where she had cried. This wasn't just a room; it was the only home she had ever truly built for herself. And now she was being evicted.

"I have nowhere to go but up now," she said softly.

Charlton squeezed her hand.

"City Hall is open until five," he said.

Daphne looked at him. She looked at the man who had picked her up off the floor, who had given her a shield when the world threw stones. The man offering her a new, albeit temporary, home.

"Let's go get married."