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UPPER EAST SIDE, NY.
The De Haan townhouse was a fortress of velvet whispers and curated opulence. Marble floors gleamed under the warm glow of chandelier light, and somewhere down the hall, the faint sound of a string quartet rehearsing echoed like a heartbeat through the house.
Adelaide stood barefoot in Monet's room, half-wrapped in a silk robe the color of dusk, her hair twisted into hot rollers. The suite was awash in sunlight, pouring through the bay windows and pooling over the racks of dresses wheeled in by stylists and house staff.
She hadn't expected to feel calm here.
But she did.
Almost.
"Monet's downstairs with the tailors," Camille De Haan said, stepping into the room. She held two flutes of champagne, offering one to Adelaide with the kind of smile that always felt a little too knowing.
Adelaide accepted it, careful not to spill. "She said you'd help me decide on a dress."
Camille raised a brow. "Please. I'd never let you walk into the DuBois Ball without the full De Haan treatment."
Adelaide gave a tight smile but said nothing. The DuBois Ball was one of the few events in the city even her mother had spoken of with reverence—an annual affair where legacy, wealth, and whisper networks all collided under chandeliers and watchful eyes.
They started with the gowns.
A deep emerald Dior that made Adelaide's waist look like it had been carved by gods.
A blush Valentino with a sheer corset that Camille deemed "too bridal."
A red Elie Saab that Monet had rejected, and Camille snatched from the pile with a smirk: "Perfect."
Adelaide turned before the mirror slowly, watching her reflection morph into something both powerful and dangerously soft. The bodice hugged her like a second skin; the train swept behind her like a secret.
But it was the silence that fell when she stepped into the mirror's full light that told her everything.
Camille's smile faded into something warmer.
"Stay still," she murmured, stepping behind her.
Adelaide flinched slightly when Camille's fingers brushed her collarbone, but the older woman only unclasped a small velvet box, producing a delicate necklace strung with diamonds and blood-red rubies.
"This belonged to my grandmother," Camille said. "She wore it the night she met my grandfather at his first ball. It's not for everyone, but..."
