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.

The ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was a kaleidoscope of diamonds, silk, and power. The chandeliers dripped light onto the elite of Manhattan.

Alice walked in alone.

Her black dress was a void in the sea of pastels and sequins. Heads turned. The whispers started immediately, rippling through the room like a wave.

"Is that her?"

"The felon?"

"She looks... intense."

"I heard she stole millions."

Alice kept her chin high. She walked to a corner near a pillar and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She didn't drink it. She just held it as a prop.

A few minutes later, the double doors swung open. Estelle and Benito entered.

Flashes erupted. It was blinding. Estelle had changed into backup shoes and was beaming, clutching Benito's arm. They looked like royalty.

Benito scanned the room. His eyes landed on Alice in the corner. He narrowed them, a silent warning: Stay there.

Alice didn't move.

Estelle worked the room, accepting compliments, playing the role of the blushing bride-to-be perfectly. Then, she steered Benito toward Alice.

She grabbed two glasses of red wine from a tray.

"Alice!" she called out, her voice pitching to carry over the crowd. "You look so... somber. You're all alone over here."

Estelle walked up to Alice, extending a glass of wine. "Here. Let's toast. To your freedom."

Alice looked at the wine. Red. Dark.

"I don't drink," she said.

Estelle stepped closer. She leaned in to hug Alice, putting her mouth right next to her ear.

"You know," she whispered, her voice venomous, "Benny told me you were like a dead fish in bed. He wonders if the guards in prison taught you any new tricks."

Alice's blood boiled. The glass in her hand shook.

Estelle pulled back, smiling sweetly. Then, she deliberately tripped over her own feet.

She threw her hands up. The red wine in her glass launched forward, splashing all over the front of her pristine white gown.

"Ahhh!" Estelle screamed. She fell to the floor in a heap of silk.

The music stopped. The room gasped.

"Alice!" Estelle sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Why did you push me?"

Alice stood there, frozen. Her champagne glass was still full. She hadn't touched Estelle.

Benito was at Estelle's side in a second. He glared up at Alice, his face twisted in rage. "Alice! Are you insane? You attacked her!"

"I didn't touch her," Alice said, her voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through her.

"I saw it!" A girl in a pink dress-one of Estelle's friends-stepped forward. "She shoved her! She's violent! She's a criminal!"

The word hung in the air. Criminal.

Cameras flashed rapidly, capturing Estelle on the floor, stained red like a victim, and Alice standing over her in black, looking like the villain.

"Get her out of here!" Benito shouted at security. "She's dangerous!"

Alice looked around the room. Disgust. Fear. Judgment.

She looked at Benito. He was enjoying this. He was the hero protecting his lady.

Alice laughed. It was a short, dry sound.

"You want a villain?" she asked softly. "Fine."