Chapter 21 Gala Invite 2
The door opened behind me.
I met the reflection in the mirror.
Lorelei.
She walked in. She locked the door behind her.
She was holding a glass of red wine. A very large glass.
"Lorelei," I said, turning around. "The speech is over. You missed the applause."
"I heard it," she said. Her voice was slurred. She swayed slightly. "They love you. Everyone loves the tragic ex-wife. It’s such a good story."
"It’s not a story," I said. "It’s a life. And it was hard."
"Hard?" She laughed. "You have him. You have Tristan wrapped around your little finger. He looks at you like you’re the sun. And me? I’m just... I’m just the idiot in the white dress."
She took a step toward me.
"We had a deal," I said softly. "Yesterday. We agreed Ida was the enemy."
"Ida is gone!" Lorelei shouted. "She’s ghosting us! But you... you’re right here. In my face. Taking everything."
She looked at my dress. The silver perfection of it.
"You think you’re so special," she hissed. "You think because you wear armor, you can't be hurt."
She raised the glass.
I knew what was coming. It was a cliché. A soap opera move.
"Lorelei, don't," I warned. "That’s a vintage Cabernet. It stains."
"Good," she said.
She lunged.
She threw the wine.
I didn't dodge. I didn't have time. The dark red liquid splashed across the front of my dress. It hit the metallic fabric...
And rolled off.
I looked down.
The fabric was hydrophobic. Treated. The wine beaded up like mercury and dripped onto the marble floor, leaving not a single mark on the silver.
I looked back up at Lorelei.
Her jaw dropped. She stared at the pristine dress, then at the puddle on the floor.
"It... it didn't stick," she whispered.
"I told you," I said coldly. "I’m an architect. I account for environmental hazards."
Lorelei let out a sound of pure frustration. She threw the empty glass.
It shattered against the wall behind me.
"I hate you!" she screamed. "I hate you!"
She rushed me.
She wasn't coordinated. She was drunk and hysterical. She grabbed the front of my dress, her nails digging into the fabric. She yanked.
The sound was sickening.
The delicate seam at the shoulder gave way. The silver fabric tore, the sleeve hanging loose, exposing my bra strap and the pale skin of my shoulder.
I stumbled back, shocked.
Lorelei stood there, breathing hard, holding a scrap of silver thread in her hand.
"There," she panted. "Now you’re broken."
I looked at the tear. I looked at my ruined armor.
And something inside me snapped.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I stepped forward. I grabbed Lorelei by the shoulders. I slammed her back against the marble sink.
"You stupid, petty little girl," I hissed, my face inches from hers. "You think ripping a dress breaks me? I have been poisoned. I have been exiled. I have survived things that would turn you into dust."
I tightened my grip.
"You wanted to be the lady of the house?" I asked. "You wanted the title? You can have it. You can have the title, and the galas, and the misery. But Tristan? Tristan will never be yours. Because even when he’s holding you, he’s thinking about me."
Lorelei sobbed, terrified.
"Now," I said, shoving her away. "Get out. Before I decide to ruin your white dress with something harder to remove than wine."
Lorelei scrambled for the door. She unlocked it with shaking hands and fled.
I stood alone in the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror.
The dress was ruined. The sleeve hung limply. My shoulder was bare. I looked disheveled. Vulnerable.
I couldn't go back out there. I couldn't let the press see me like this. I couldn't let Tristan see me like this.
I needed a fix.
I grabbed my phone.
I dialed the one person who could put things back together.
"Lonnie," I said when he answered. "Code Red."
"What happened?"
"Lorelei. She ripped the dress. I’m in the bathroom at the Met. I can't walk out."
"Give me two minutes," Lonnie said. "I’m in the lobby. I have a sewing kit in my pocket. I’m gay, Mina. We’re always prepared for fashion emergencies."
"Hurry."
I hung up.
I leaned against the sink, shaking.
The armor was breached.
And out in the hall, Tristan was waiting. If he saw this... if he saw what Lorelei did...
He would destroy her.
And part of me wanted to let him.
Outside the bathroom door...
Tristan leaned against the wall, checking his watch.
She had been in there a long time.
He heard a noise. The lock clicking.
The door flew open.
Lorelei burst out. She was crying. She looked at Tristan, her eyes wide with panic.
"Tristan," she gasped. "She... she attacked me! She’s crazy!"
Tristan looked at Lorelei. He saw her pristine white dress. He saw the lack of marks on her.
Then he looked at the open door.
He saw me standing by the sink.
He saw the wine on the floor.
And he saw the ripped silver fabric hanging from my shoulder.
He didn't look at Lorelei.
He walked past her, straight into the ladies' room.
"Tristan! You can't go in there!" Lorelei shrieked.
He slammed the door in her face and locked it.
He turned to me.
His eyes were black. Absolutely, terrifyingly black.
"Did she touch you?" he asked. His voice was so low the ground vibrated.
"She tried to pour wine on me," I said, clutching the torn fabric. "It rolled off. So she used her hands."
Tristan walked toward me. He looked at the tear. He reached out, his fingers grazing the exposed skin of my shoulder. His touch was fire.
"She hurt you," he whispered.
"It’s just a dress, Tristan."
"It’s not just a dress," he said. "You were safe. I promised you were safe."
He pulled me into him. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling sharply. He was shaking.
"I’m going to ruin her," he vowed against my skin. "I’m going to burn her father’s career to the ground."
"Tristan, stop."
"I can't stop!" He pulled back, gripping my arms. "I can't stop, Mina! I look at you, and I see everything I broke, and I just want to kill anyone who adds another crack!"
The door rattled.
"Go away!" Tristan roared.
"It’s Lonnie," a calm voice called from the hall. "I have a needle and thread. Unless you plan on fixing that dress with your testosterone, Tristan, let me in."
Tristan froze. He looked at the door. Then at me.
"Let him in," I said.
Tristan unlocked the door.
Lonnie slipped inside, looking immaculate in his tuxedo. He took one look at the scene and sighed.
"Subtle," Lonnie said. "Very subtle."
He walked over to me. "Turn around, darling. Let’s see the damage."
I turned.
Lonnie pulled a needle and silver thread from his pocket. He started stitching, his hands quick and precise.
Tristan stood there, watching.
He watched Lonnie’s hands touching my skin. He watched the way I leaned into Lonnie, trusting him. He watched the intimacy of it.
And I saw it.
The jealousy.
It wasn't the hot, reactive jealousy he had for the invisible "K" in the letters. This was cold. This was deep.
He hated that Lonnie could fix me.
He hated that he couldn't.
"Done," Lonnie said, snapping the thread. "Good as new. Better, actually. I reinforced the seam."
I turned back to the mirror. The tear was gone. The armor was whole again.
"Thank you, Lonnie," I whispered.
"Anytime." Lonnie patted my cheek. He looked at Tristan. "She’s ready for her close-up. Try not to get blood on the dress."
Lonnie left.
Tristan didn't move. He was staring at the spot where Lonnie had touched my cheek.
"He loves you," Tristan said.
"He’s my best friend."
"He loves you," Tristan repeated. "I can see it. He looks at you like you’re fragile."
"I am fragile, Tristan."
"No," he said. He stepped closer, crowding me against the sink. "You’re not fragile. You’re steel. And Lonnie? Lonnie is a crutch."
He reached out. He placed his hand on my waist, right over the liquid silver.
"I don't want to be your crutch," he whispered. "I want to be the ground you stand on."
"The ground is unstable," I said.
"Then let it quake."
He leaned in. He was going to kiss me again. Here. In the bathroom. With the wine on the floor and the ghost of his fiancée in the hall.
And I wanted him to.
My eyes fluttered shut.
Buzz. Buzz
His phone.
He ignored it.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It was insistent. Violent.
Tristan pulled back, cursing. He grabbed his phone.
He looked at the screen.
His face went white. All the heat, all the passion, drained out of him in a second.
"What?" I asked.
He turned the phone to me.
It was a text from Ida.
A photo.
It was the interior of the Johnston Estate. Specifically, the library.
My workspace.
It was on fire.
Flames were licking up the white walls. The glass desk was shattering. The blueprints were ash.
Underneath, a caption:
Renovations are complete.
I stared at the screen.
The fire wasn't just in the library.
It was in the guest wing. Where the safe was. Where the journals were.
Ida hadn't disappeared. She had flanked us.
While we were playing dress-up at the gala, she had burned the evidence.
"We have to go," Tristan said, grabbing my hand. "Now."
We ran.