Chapter 78 Getting Ready
Elena’s POV
The morning of the gala arrived with a pale, thin light that seemed to stretch across the mansion floors like a warning. I moved through the quiet corridors, performing the same tasks I have done for 30 years. I pressed the linens. I prepared the tea trays. I organized the chaotic mess of accessories that always follows a collection. But today, every action felt different. It was the specific way that endings and beginnings feel different from ordinary days. The air in the house was heavy, charged with the static of a storm that had been brewing since Harrison disappeared.
I went to the guest suite first. Grandmother was already awake, sitting by the window in her silk robe. Helping her into her outfit for the gala was a quiet process that took an hour. Her hands were thin and spotted with age, but they didn't shake. As I fastened the small pearl buttons on her sleeve, she began to talk. She spoke about Clara in the easy way of someone who has been holding a name too tightly for too long and has finally been permitted to say it freely.
"Clara always hated the starch in these formal gowns," she said, a small smile touching her lips. "She used to say that if a dress didn't let you breathe, it wasn't worth the fabric. She would have loved what Brittany did with the midnight silk. It has room for a soul to move."
"She would have been proud," I replied, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. "Brittany has her hands, ma'am. And her eyes."
"She has more than that, Elena," Grandmother whispered. "She has the one thing Clara lost toward the end. She has the will to stay."
I stayed with her until she was settled, then I walked to the studio to find Brittany. She was sitting at the vanity, staring at her reflection with a gaze that seemed to see right through the glass. I didn't wait for her to ask. I simply picked up the brush and began to work on her hair. I have wanted to do this since the girl first arrived at the gates, looking like something the rain had half-destroyed.
As I worked, I talked about small things. I talked about the humidity in the ballroom and the way the lights would reflect off the runway. I watched Brittany's face in the mirror. I saw it move through waves of focus and sharp flashes of fear. Then, I saw it settle into a deep, quiet resolve. But there was something else in her eyes that I recognized immediately. I have seen that expression on only one other face in this house. It was the particular expression of a person who has decided to love someone and is terrified by the sheer weight of it.
I said nothing about that. Some truths are too fragile to be spoken aloud while the enemy is still breathing. I pinned the last of the dark curls into place, making sure the style was elegant but strong. I stepped back and looked at the woman in the mirror. She didn't look like a girl from a trailer anymore. She looked like a queen preparing for a war she intended to win.
The room was silent, save for the distant hum of David’s security teams moving in the driveway. Brittany reached out and touched the edge of the vanity, her fingers trembling just a fraction.
"Is it enough, Elena?" she asked. "The dresses. The evidence. Is it enough to break them?"
"The dresses are the truth," I said, meeting her eyes in the reflection. "And the truth is a very difficult thing to kill once people have seen it with their own eyes. You have done the work. Now you just have to walk."
Brittany took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling under the simple white sweater. "David thinks his father is already there. Watching."
"Let him watch," I said. "He spent seven years in the dark. It is time he learned what happens when the lights come back on."
I felt the weight of the small object in my apron pocket. I had carried it for a long time, waiting for the right moment, the right girl, and the right fight. I reached in and pulled out a small, silver brooch shaped like a feathered wing. It was delicate, yet it felt heavy in my palm. I stepped forward and carefully pinned it into the side of Brittany's hair, tucked just behind her ear where it would catch the light.
Brittany reached up, her fingers grazing the cool metal. "What is this?"
"It is something Clara wore to every important showing," I said quietly. "She called it her anchor. She wore it the night she signed the contract. She said it was for luck."
I paused, watching the realization dawn in Brittany's eyes. I thought of the night Clara gave it to me, her voice a desperate whisper in the old studio.
"She asked me to give it to her daughter on the day she reclaimed everything," I said, my voice remaining steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "She had two made. The other one is already on its way to someone who doesn't know she's coming today."