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.

She didn't knock. She pushed open the double doors to Estelle's suite-her old suite.

The room was a flurry of activity. Bright lights, hairspray, the chatter of a styling team. Estelle sat in the center of it all on a velvet chair, looking like a porcelain doll.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood nearby, barking orders at a maid. "The diamond choker! The Vinson family sent it. Get it!"

Eleanor turned and saw Alice. Her face fell.

"What are you wearing?" Eleanor demanded, her nose wrinkling. "You look like a crow. It's a Gala, Alice, not a funeral."

"It's the only dress I have," Alice said calmly.

Estelle looked at Alice in the mirror. Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "Oh no! Alice! I completely forgot to order you a dress. I've just been so swamped with the charity planning."

Her voice was sweet, dripping with synthetic syrup.

"It's fine," Alice said. "I don't need your charity."

Eleanor stepped forward. "Well, since you're here, make yourself useful. Help your sister with her shoes. Her back is sore from all her cello practice."

The room went silent. The stylists paused, combs hovering in mid-air.

They wanted the former heiress to kneel at the feet of the new favorite. It was a power play. A public humiliation.

"She has hands," Alice said. "And a dozen maids."

"Do as you're told!" Eleanor snapped. "You learned how to take orders in prison, didn't you? Use those skills."

Estelle pouted, extending a foot. "Please, Alice? My back really does hurt."

Alice looked at the shoe. A Jimmy Choo stiletto, encrusted with crystals.

She looked at Estelle's smug face.

Alice walked over. She knelt.

Eleanor and Estelle exchanged a triumphant glance. They thought they had broken her.

Alice picked up the shoe. She held it in her hands. It was delicate.

"This heel looks loose," she said loudly. "It might be dangerous."

She gripped the heel and the sole. Her hands were strong. Three years of scrubbing floors and lifting crates in the commissary had given her grip strength they couldn't imagine.

She twisted.

Snap.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. The heel broke off cleanly in her hand.

"Oops," Alice said, standing up and dropping the broken pieces on the floor. "It broke. Guess it wasn't made very well. Just like your story."

Estelle shrieked. "My custom shoes! You did that on purpose!"

Eleanor lunged at Alice, her hand raised to strike. "You spiteful little wretch! You're just jealous!"

Alice didn't flinch. She stared straight into her mother's eyes.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Hit me. Do it. I'll walk downstairs with a handprint on my face. And when the reporters ask, I'll tell them exactly who did it. 'Stafford Matriarch Abuses Freshly Released Daughter.' That's a headline, isn't it?"

Eleanor's hand froze in the air. Her chest heaved. She looked at the stylists, who were watching with wide eyes. She knew she couldn't do it. Not with witnesses.

She lowered her hand slowly. "Get out. Get out of my sight."

Alice turned her back on them. As she walked to the door, she heard Estelle sobbing about her ruined outfit.

Alice smiled. It was the first time she had smiled all day.