She found a black turtleneck sweater in the back of the closet. Martha, bless her, had managed to save a few of her old things, hiding them here. It smelled like mothballs, but it covered her neck, her arms, and most importantly, the scar.

She pulled it on and opened the door.

Benito was still there. He was leaning against the wall in the hallway, smoking a cigarette. The gray smoke swirled around his head like a halo of toxicity.

He looked her up and down as she stepped out.

"Dressed like a nun now?" he drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Trying to play the saint?"

She didn't answer. She started walking toward the stairs.

He pushed off the wall and stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He crowded her, forcing her to step back until her shoulders hit the wall.

"Back in the bathroom," he said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur that made her skin crawl. "You left the door unlocked on purpose, didn't you?"

She looked at him like he had grown a second head. "The lock is broken, Benito."

He chuckled, a dark, arrogant sound. "Stop pretending. You knew I was coming. You wanted me to see you. You think if you seduce me, I'll take you back. You think I'm your ticket back into society."

He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. "After all, I'm the only chance you have."

She jerked her head away, his touch feeling like a brand. "Don't touch me. You make me sick."

His hand froze in mid-air. His expression shifted from amusement to anger. "Sick? You're a convict, Alice. You have a record. Who else would look at you? Who else would want damaged goods like you?"

Gary would. The thought was a lifeline. Gary, the man she wrote to for two years. The man whose name was on the document tucked away in a safety deposit box-the only real thing she had left. He wasn't rich, he wasn't powerful, but he was her anchor.

"Move," she said, her voice icy. "I'm going to see my father."

Benito grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, painful. "Listen to me. Tonight at the Gala, you stay in the shadows. Do not try to upstage Estelle. Do not talk about prison. And do not try to cling to me."

She looked down at his hand on her wrist. The same hand that had sanitized itself after she breathed the same air as him.

"Let go," she said, enunciating every word. "Or I will scream. And I will tell every maid in this house that you're harassing your 'ex' fiancée."

He released her as if she had shocked him. He took a step back, straightening his tie, smoothing his suit jacket.

"You're delusional," he spat. "Remember your place, Alice. You are nothing but a stain on the Stafford name now."

He turned and walked away, his Italian leather shoes clicking rhythmically on the floor.

She watched him go. The lingering affection, the desperate hope she had held onto for three years... it was gone. Evaporated.

He wasn't just cruel; he was stupid. His arrogance blinded him. He actually thought she still wanted him.

That arrogance was a weakness. And she would exploit it.

She took a deep breath and walked to the top of the stairs. Below, in the grand foyer, she heard laughter.

Estelle's laughter. It was light, airy, practiced.

She looked over the banister. Estelle was standing there in a white silk gown, looking like an angel. She was clinging to Benito's arm, gazing up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

Benito leaned down and kissed her forehead. The tenderness in the gesture was unmistakable.

She gripped the wooden railing until her knuckles turned white.

They were playing a game. A game of perfect couple, perfect family, perfect life.

She stared down at them from the shadows.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought. Because she was about to flip the board.

She avoided the main hall and took the servants' stairs down to the kitchen. Her stomach was growling, a painful reminder that she hadn't eaten since dawn.

The kitchen was bustling. Trays of hors d'oeuvres were being prepped for the pre-Gala reception. The air smelled of truffle oil and roasted garlic.

She paused in the doorway. No one noticed her.

"Did you hear? The jailbird is back," one of the new maids whispered, slicing lemons with vigorous strokes.

"Shh," another hissed. "Don't call her that. But yeah. I heard she looks terrible. Like a skeleton."

"Well, what do you expect?" the first maid said. "Unlike Miss Estelle. She's glowing. She's practically a saint, taking care of the family business while her sister was rotting in a cell."

"And to think," a third voice chimed in, lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "Estelle isn't even a blood Stafford. She's adopted."

"Really? But the Master treats her like she's the only daughter he has."

"That's just fate. Some people are born with bad blood, like Alice. Some people have noble souls, like Estelle. Blood doesn't matter when you have class."

She leaned against the doorframe, listening. Bad blood. Noble soul.

She pushed off the wall and stepped into the light.

"Water," she said. Her voice was flat.

The conversation died instantly. The maids jumped, eyes widening as they took in her appearance.

"Get her some water!" Martha's voice cut through the silence. She bustled over, glaring at the girls.

Alice took the glass Martha handed her. Her hand shook slightly, but she steadied it.

"Martha," she said, ignoring the staring staff. "Where are my things? My easel? My paints? The books from my grandmother?"

Martha bit her lip, looking away. "The Madam... she said they were clutter. She had most of it thrown out."

"Thrown out?" Alice felt a sharp pang in her chest. "All of it?"

"Well," Martha hesitated. "Miss Estelle... she took the antique easel. The one your grandmother gave you. She said it would look rustic in her new music room."

Her grip on the glass tightened. Her grandmother's easel. The only thing she had left of the one person who actually loved her. Estelle didn't paint. She didn't draw. She took it just to take it. To erase her.

"And," Martha leaned in closer, her voice barely audible, "about what they were saying... about the adoption. You shouldn't mention that. Not tonight."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Why? It's not a secret. Everyone knows she was adopted."

"Because," Martha whispered, "Miss Estelle has been telling people... implying... that she is the Master's true blood, an illegitimate daughter brought into the family, not just a foundling. She's rewriting the narrative, Miss Alice. She wants people to believe she has a claim by blood."

Alice almost laughed. It was so absurd. Estelle was obsessed with perfection. She was so desperate to be a "real" Vinson-Stafford elite that she was lying about her DNA.

That wasn't just vanity. In this circle, lying about lineage was a cardinal sin. It was fraud.

She set the glass down on the counter. "Thank you, Martha."

She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her hunger was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating energy.

Estelle wanted to be the perfect, pure-blooded daughter? She wanted to steal her history, her room, her fiancé, and even her grandmother's memory?

Alice walked down the hallway. The portrait that used to hang near the library-a painting of her at sixteen-was gone. In its place hung a massive oil painting of Estelle, sitting with a cello, bathed in heavenly light.

Alice stared at the painted lie.

Estelle had a weakness. Her perfection was a house of cards built on a foundation of insecurity and deceit.

And Alice was the wind.

She needed to get back to her room before the guests started arriving, but as she passed the heavy oak door of the smoking room, she heard a voice that stopped her in her tracks.

It was Benito.

The door was ajar, just a crack. The smell of expensive cigars and aged scotch drifted out into the hallway.

"Come on, man," another voice said. She recognized it. Preston Vance. Benito's college roommate and lifelong sycophant. "You're not actually going to marry her, are you? The ex-con?"

She pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

"Don't be stupid," Benito's voice was lazy, slurred slightly. "The engagement is dead. It has been for years."

"Then why the big show? Picking her up? Bringing her here?"

"Optics," Benito said. She could hear the clink of ice against glass. "The Vinson Group can't look like we kick people when they're down. We have to look benevolent. Supportive."

"Plus," Benito added, his voice dropping lower, "I need to keep an eye on her. She knows things. If I cut her loose too fast, who knows what she'll sell to the tabloids for drug money."

Her fingernails dug into the fabric of her sweater. Drug money. He thought she was an addict now, too?

"What about Estelle?" Preston asked. "She's been waiting for you."

"Estelle is an angel," Benito said, his tone shifting to reverence. "She's the future Mrs. Vinson. She's perfect."

"And Alice?"

Benito laughed. It was a cruel, dismissive sound.

"Alice is damaged goods, Preston. You don't marry damaged goods. You dispose of them quietly. Once the media loses interest, I'll cut her a check and send her somewhere far away. Maybe Europe. Maybe hell. I don't care."

Damaged goods.

The words pierced through her chest like a serrated knife. It wasn't just an insult. It was a dehumanization. To him, she wasn't a person. She was a product that had been dropped, dented, and was now fit only for the trash heap.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. But she didn't let them fall.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the old smartphone Martha had kept for her. She had charged it earlier.

She hit the record button.

She missed the beginning, but she caught the end.

"...cut her a check... send her somewhere... damaged goods."

It wasn't much, but it was his voice. His cruelty.

She stopped the recording and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Inside the room, the conversation shifted to poker.

She pushed off the wall and walked silently toward the stairs. Her heart wasn't racing anymore. It was beating with a slow, heavy rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud.

She went into the guest room and locked the door-using a chair wedged under the handle since the lock was broken.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

"Damaged goods," she whispered to her reflection.

She bared her teeth.

She opened the closet. There were no ballgowns, just the few old dresses Martha had managed to save from the purge.

She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, severe. Long sleeves, high neck, floor-length. It looked like mourning attire.

Perfect.

She stripped off the sweater and pulled the dress on. It hung a little loose on her emaciated frame, but it made her look like a shadow. A wraith.

She wasn't going to the Gala to celebrate. She was going to haunt them.