The Georgetown apartment was dead silent. It lacked the suffocating oppression of the Beaumont estate, but it held its own kind of emptiness.

Harlene threw her purse onto the floor. It hit the hardwood with a dull thud. She walked straight to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. She twisted the faucet and splashed freezing water onto her face, the cold shock making her gasp. Then, she grabbed a bottle of numbing spray from the cabinet and doused her swollen left ankle until the skin went white and dead.

She looked up at the mirror. The woman staring back had wild eyes-chaotic, but terrifyingly awake.

The front door burst open. Winter McCoy, her assistant, rushed in, her face pale with worry. In her hand, she clutched a small orange bottle of pills. "Harlene, you need to take your sedative. You're not thinking straight."

Harlene slapped the bottle out of Winter's hand. It hit the tile floor, the plastic cracking, pills scattering everywhere like tiny white marbles. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

Winter flinched, staring at the pills scattered across the floor. "Harlene, please. Don't go to that dinner. It's a trap. They just want to humiliate you."

Harlene stepped forward. Ignoring the sharp, sickening protest from her ankle, she put her full weight onto her heel, crushing a pill into powder on the tile. The crunch was satisfying. "That's exactly why I'm going."

She marched to her closet. She grabbed the hangers holding the conservative, pastel dresses that Genevieve approved of-colors meant to make her invisible-and ripped them out. She threw them onto the floor in a heap of silk and chiffon.

Her eyes landed on the back of the closet. Hanging there, in all its dark glory, was the dress Mitch had found. A deep crimson velvet gown, tight, floor-length, with a slit that ran high up the thigh. It was a dress meant to draw blood.

Harlene pulled it on. The velvet clung to her curves like a second skin. She forced her feet into a pair of lethal stilettos; the tight leather acted like a makeshift splint, binding the pain into a dull, manageable throb. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She looked like a flame about to consume everything in its path. She ran her hand along her thigh, feeling the outline of the thin, leather sheath custom-sewn into the lining, perfectly concealed by the dramatic slit. An old precaution. A promise to herself that she would never be defenseless again.

Winter held out a pair of simple pearl earrings. "At least wear these. Tone it down."

Harlene shook her head. She dug into the back of a drawer and pulled out a pair of sharp, metallic tassel earrings. They dangled like silver daggers.

She sat at the vanity. She didn't try to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Instead, she took a charcoal eyeshadow and smeared it heavily, making the hollows look deeper, more bruised. She looked sick. She looked feral.

She picked up a tube of bright red lipstick. She applied it carefully, then deliberately smeared the edge just past her lip line. It looked like a fresh wound.

Winter let out a shaky sigh. "What are you doing, Harlene? Are you trying to win Dennis back? Because this isn't the way."

At the mention of his name, Harlene's hand froze. Then, a laugh erupted from her throat. It was a harsh, grating sound that held no humor, only pain and madness.

She turned to face Winter, her eyes blazing. "Win him back? No, Winter. I'm going to show them exactly what their monster looks like."

Her phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a message from Dennis.

Don't make a fool of yourself tonight.

Harlene stared at the words. She traced the screen with her fingertip, the cold glass offering no comfort. The last flicker of warmth in her eyes died out, replaced by ice.

She typed back a single emoji. A smiley face. It was the most sarcastic, insulting response she could give.

Before walking out, Harlene paused in the hallway. Hanging on the wall was a portrait of her grandmother. The only person who had ever held her without an agenda.

She leaned in close, her voice a broken whisper. "If you see me tonight, Grandmother, forgive me for not being decent."

In the car, Winter shoved a can of pepper spray into her hand. "Just in case."

Harlene tossed it into her clutch. She looked out the window at the city lights. The Christmas decorations still glittered on the streets, but in Harlene's world, there was only black, white, and the red of her dress.

As the car pulled away, Winter watched it go, her heart pounding. Her hands trembled as she pulled out her own phone and dialed a number Harlene had given her for dire emergencies only. "She's on her way," Winter whispered into the phone, her voice tight with fear. "She's going to the gala. I think... I think she's going to burn it all down." A calm, steady voice replied on the other end before the line went dead, leaving Winter alone in the silent apartment, praying she had done the right thing.

The car pulled up to the hotel entrance. The moment the door opened, a barrage of camera flashes exploded, blinding her like a swarm of wasps.

Harlene didn't shield her face. She didn't cower. She stepped out of the car with her chin held high. The red velvet dress caught the light, making her look like a drop of blood against the snowy pavement.

The reporters shouted over each other. "Harlene! Are you having a breakdown?" "How do you feel about Estella's award?" "Is it true you're off your meds?"

She didn't answer. She just smiled that creepy, serene smile, soaking in their horror like a sponge.

A hotel security guard rushed forward, reaching for her elbow. "Miss Beaumont, please use the service entrance."

Harlene slapped his hand away with a loud crack. She walked straight past him, her heels clicking on the red carpet like gunshots, her stride steady only through a sheer, manic force of will, moving with the authority of a queen entering her conquered territory.

She reached the grand golden doors. She pushed them open with both hands.

The noise inside the ballroom died instantly. Hundreds of faces turned to stare at the woman in the blood-red dress, the silence so thick it choked the air.

Harlene stood in the doorway. She didn't move. She let them look, let their eyes scrape over her like sandpaper. The silence stretched until it became unbearable, and then the whispers began.

They hissed like snakes. "What is she wearing?" "She looks insane." "Someone should call a doctor."

Near the stage, Genevieve's face was a mask of fury. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her champagne flute that it was a miracle the glass didn't shatter.

Estella stood beside her, the picture of perfect concern. But her eyes were mocking, enjoying the spectacle of her sister's humiliation.

Harlene ignored them all. She walked toward the bar, her heels striking the marble floor with a sharp, rhythmic click. She picked up a flute of champagne and downed it in one gulp. The alcohol burned a trail of fire down her throat, igniting the rage in her stomach.

A rough hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was bruising, crushing the delicate bones together.

The smell hit her next. Tobacco and expensive cologne. The scent of power and cruelty. Dennis.

Harlene didn't turn around. She just looked at his white-knuckled grip on her wrist, a cold smile playing on her lips.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Dennis hissed, his jaw clenched tight. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

Harlene turned slowly. She took the hand that was bruising her wrist and dragged her fingernails lightly down the front of his tailored suit. She looked up at him through her dark, smudged makeup, her gaze a mix of seduction and utter contempt.

"Don't you like it?" she purred. "Isn't this what you wanted? A crazy woman?"

Disgust flashed in Dennis's eyes. He dropped her hand like it was diseased, wiping his palm on his pants. He glanced around the room, making sure no important donors were watching, before leaning in close.

"Keep your voice down," he snarled. "Stop acting like a child."

Harlene rubbed her wrist, the skin already turning purple. Looking at his perfectly composed, hypocritical face made her stomach churn. "You're worried about the cameras, Dennis. Not me."

Dennis tried a different tactic. His voice softened, his eyes feigning warmth. "Harlene, please. Remember when we got engaged? We were happy then."

"Don't," Harlene cut him off, her voice sharp as glass. "You were happy because my father was paying your campaign bills."

Dennis's face went red. The blow to his ego shattered his facade of control. He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her collarbones. "You don't get to be self-righteous. You're nothing without this family."

Harlene leaned in until her lips were almost touching his ear. "You look just like all the other pathetic men I've played with," she whispered.

Dennis shoved her hard. Harlene stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the carpet. She crashed into a waiter, sending a tray of glasses crashing to the floor.

The shattering glass silenced the room once again. Every head turned, every camera flashed.

Dennis's expression flipped like a switch. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched, his face the picture of a concerned fiancé. "Harlene, are you okay?"

Harlene batted his hand away. She steadied herself, brushing a shard of glass off her shoulder. She looked at him with eyes that were dead and cold.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice ringing clearly across the ballroom.

Dennis froze. The concern melted off his face, leaving only panic. He realized she wasn't playing by his rules anymore.

He shot her a venomous glare before turning and melting into the crowd, desperate to escape the blast zone.

Harlene didn't chase him. She simply picked up another glass of wine from the bar. She turned, her eyes scanning the sea of faces until they landed on a woman in a pale blue dress, laughing with a group of senators.

Jailyn Richard.

Harlene raised her glass toward the woman, a mocking salute. The hunt was on.

Harlene walked through the crowd, her red dress a slash of color against the monochrome suits. As she moved, people physically recoiled, stepping back to let her pass.

A strange, electric thrill shot through her. So this was what it felt like to be the monster. They were afraid of her.

Before she could reach the other side, Dennis stepped into her path. And he wasn't alone. Jailyn was clinging to his arm, her chin tilted up in defiance.

"Apologize," Dennis demanded, pointing a finger at Harlene. "Apologize to Jailyn right now."

Harlene raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Why would I apologize to a campaign manager?"

Jailyn stepped forward, her lower lip trembling in a perfect pout. "Because of your leak last month, I almost lost my job. It was humiliating."

Harlene let out a short, bitter laugh. "That leak came from Estella, and you know it."

"Shut up," Dennis snapped. "You did it because you're jealous of Jailyn's talent. You always have been."

The absurdity of it hit Harlene like a physical blow. She had never been jealous of this woman. She was just a pawn in Estella's game.

Dennis leaned in, his voice dropping to a threat. "If you don't apologize, the wedding is off."

Harlene didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She laughed. It was a loud, genuine laugh that made Dennis's eye twitch.

She reached out and straightened his crooked tie. The gesture was intimate, but the look in her eyes made his skin crawl.

She leaned close to his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "Cancel the wedding. You'll still just be a loser who rode a woman's coattails to the top."

Dennis's face drained of color. He shoved her away, his eyes burning with hatred.

Jailyn immediately gasped, stepping back and clutching her pearls, playing the victim for the nearby audience.

Harlene looked at the two of them, their little performance making her sick. She tipped her champagne glass. The liquid splashed all over Jailyn's expensive white heels.

Jailyn shrieked. "You're insane! You're an animal!"

Harlene bent down, bringing herself eye-level with Jailyn. "This is just the beginning, thief," she whispered, the word sharp as a knife. Her mind flashed with images of her own stolen design sketches for the Argent sculpture competition, sketches she'd later seen hailed as Jailyn's genius.

Jailyn's eyes widened. She had heard the word. She understood exactly what it meant. She took a step back, her face going pale.

Dennis, oblivious to the exchange, grabbed Harlene's arm again. "You don't get to ruin her career!"

Harlene yanked her arm free. She looked at the fresh bruises forming on her skin, then back at him. "Are you protecting her career, Dennis? Or your own poll numbers?"

The murmurs around them grew louder. The Beaumont family image was cracking.

A housekeeper sent by Genevieve tried to intervene, but one icy glare from Harlene sent the woman scurrying away.

Dennis realized the situation was out of control. He grabbed Jailyn's hand and pulled her away, fleeing the scene.

Harlene watched them go. Her eyes were empty, as if she were staring at two corpses.

She turned and walked out onto the balcony. The cold air hit her, but it did nothing to cool the boiling rage inside her.

She pulled out her phone and typed a message to an encrypted number. "Initiate Protocol Two."

She looked back through the glass doors. Estella was standing near the stage, her dress shimmering under the lights. The design of the embroidery caught Harlene's eye. Something was wrong.