Glass and Gowns

“Perfection was her birthright. Rage was her rebellion.”

The chandelier glittered above like judgment.

Hundreds of hand-cut crystals shimmered under the golden light of the ballroom, casting kaleidoscopic halos across champagne flutes and gilded trays. Waiters glided through the space with silent footsteps, and the soft murmur of classical piano music blanketed the tension like powdered sugar over poison.

Dominique stood at the center of it all in a floor-length ivory gown, posture straight, lips red, smile hollow.

The dress was Dior.

She didn’t shatter. She sharpened.”

The next morning, Dominique arrived at school with concealer smoothed over rage and a blazer sharp enough to cut glass.

The halls were loud—teenage chaos and cheap cologne—but she walked through it like an apparition, untouched and untouchable. Until she turned the corner.

Priscilla was waiting.

Dominique didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch.

She walked past her without a glance.

But Priscilla followed. Stilettos clicking. Bubblegum popping.

“Hey, Prez,” she cooed. “Got a sec?”

Dominique stopped in front of the girls’ bathroom. She looked at the door, then back at Priscilla. “Make it fast.”

“Oh, it will be.”

Inside, the lights flickered slightly—old bulbs on their last breath. The mirror buzzed overhead. A fan whined from the corner stall.

Dominique turned to face her with folded arms. “What do you want?”

Priscilla smiled and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up with a photo.

Dominique’s breath caught—not from fear.

But recognition.

It was her. Not her face, not clearly. But her body. Her collar. The edge of her whip.

Domica.

Priscilla zoomed in with two fingers and tilted the phone. “Cute little setup. Very… niche. Did your daddy pay for the dungeon decor?”

Dominique said nothing.

Priscilla leaned in, her whisper like venom.

“You give up the cheer captain title and the class presidency… or this goes viral. Every locker. Every inbox.”

Dominique stared at her. Blinked once.

Then smiled.

“Okay.”

Priscilla blinked.

“What?”

“You can have them. Both.”

“No threats, no panic?” Priscilla frowned. “No screaming about fake photos?”

Dominique leaned in close, her voice syrup-sweet.

“I said okay.”

And then she walked past her, slow and deliberate, letting the door hiss shut behind her.

Priscilla stood there for a beat, confused.

But she hadn’t won.

She just hadn’t seen what she’d awakened.

In calculus class, Dominique sat in silence, chin propped on one hand. Her pen didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t follow the board.

They followed him.

Damien.

Back row. Hoodie draped over his chair like a wolfskin cloak. Fingers drumming lightly on the desk.

And beside him—Priscilla.

Leaning in.

Giggle-whispering.

Touching his shoulder.

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

But his eyes—those damn eyes—slid sideways. Met Dominique’s.

Held.

Dared.

Priscilla said something that made her laugh. Loud. Fake.

Dominique didn’t flinch.

She smoothed her skirt, closed her notebook, and whispered just loud enough for herself to hear—

“Game on.”

The smile was Dior, too—stitched in expectation and suffocating tight.

She nodded politely at a guest who complimented her “radiance.” She even laughed, delicately, as a senator’s wife pinched her cheek and remarked how she was “just like her mother.”

She wasn’t.

She was nothing like her mother.

And yet—

Here she was, wearing her mask so well it had become skin.

Her father stood near the wine bar, laughing loudly with men whose names came attached to headlines and market predictions. He didn’t glance her way.

He never did.

Her mother moved like a queen among pawns—champagne in hand, heels clicking, head always tilted just so. Not too warm. Not too cold. Regal.

Dominique matched her movements like a mirrored ballet—until the mask slipped for just a moment.

A waiter passed by, silver tray catching on the sleeve of her dress.

The glass she held tilted.

It slipped.

Shattered.

A ring of silence punctuated the room, sharp and brittle.

All eyes turned.

Wine spread like blood over marble.

Her hand shook.

Her face didn’t.

“I’m fine,” she said, bending swiftly to retrieve a shard.

But her mother was already there, smile frozen, voice soft like silk-wrapped razors.

“Darling,” she murmured through clenched teeth. “Do not bend. You’ll ruin the hem.”

Dominique straightened, lips parting.

“Of course,” she said, robotic.

Her mother’s smile didn’t shift. “Excuse yourself. Fix your face.”

Dominique turned without a word and ascended the grand staircase, each step echoing like a war drum.

Her bedroom door closed behind her with a final, heavy click.

Silence.

Real silence.

She walked to the vanity. Stared at herself.

Her reflection stared back.

Lipstick perfect.

Hair immaculate.

Eyes… wrong.

She curled her fingers into fists.

Then uncurled them.

Then grabbed the crystal perfume bottle beside the mirror and hurled it against the wall.

It exploded in a spray of glass and rose.

A moment later, the door opened.

Her mother stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her.

Dominique didn’t turn.

“You embarrassed yourself,” her mother said calmly.

“I dropped a glass.”

“You cracked,” her mother corrected, voice colder now. “And if you can’t keep it together during a party, how on earth do you plan to handle the real world?”

Dominique said nothing.

“You have responsibilities. Appearances. This family has worked too hard for you to unravel just because you feel a little… emotional.”

The silence between them crackled.

Then—

“You’re right,” Dominique said sweetly. “I’ll glue myself back together.”

Her mother nodded, satisfied.

But neither of them noticed the smallest crack running along the edge of the mirror—hairline, subtle, but growing. “A queen never panics. She waits for silence… then strikes.”

Dominique didn’t cry in her room that night.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t write a diary entry or break another perfume bottle or replay her mother’s words in her head.

Instead, she ran a bath.

She poured her favorite jasmine and bergamot oil into the steaming water and slid beneath it, eyes open to the ceiling. Her muscles burned from hours of forced smiles and perfected posture. But beneath the still surface of her body, her mind was wide awake.

Priscilla thought she’d won.

And maybe, by the rules of their little high school kingdom, she had.

But Dominique had never played by those rules.

Domica didn’t wear a sash.

She wore power.

And Dominique… was remembering that now.

She emerged from the water glowing, the remnants of perfume and rose-scented pretense wiped clean from her skin.

Wrapped in a silk robe, she crossed to her desk and powered on her custom-built laptop. A black screen blinked once, then flooded with code and interface panels. She logged into her encrypted subnetwork. A familiar fox mask avatar blinked in the corner: Domica_Alpha.

The subscriber list pinged open.

There he was.

Robert W. Hartwell.

Age: 47.

Occupation: Investment banker.

Known usernames: ObeyMeAlpha, HumbledDaddy86, and, most damningly, DevotedToDomica.

Priscilla’s father.

Dominique stared at the screen, lips parting slowly into a smile so subtle it barely moved her face.

“Bingo.”

The next morning, school buzzed with rumors about Dominique’s dethroning. Whispers floated through lockers and bleachers like glitter laced with blood.

“She gave it up without a fight.”

“Must be true. She probably was exposed.”

“I heard it was some freak sex dungeon sh—”

“She didn’t even blink. That’s what’s creepy.”

Dominique walked through the noise like it was fog. Her hair was down. Her blazer traded for leather. Her gaze? Lethal.

She passed Damien by the vending machine. He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

But their eyes locked again.

And this time?

She smirked.

That night, Domica returned.

Not to the WREC room.

Not to the dungeon.

But to a private studio she hadn’t used in months—sleek, modern, soundproofed. Minimalist in design, but laced with hooks, clamps, cushions, and mood lighting.

She set up three cameras.

Prepared her tools.

And waited.

Exactly at 9:00 PM, the door buzzed.

He entered—suited, nervous, carrying shame like a second skin.

She didn’t greet him.

She didn’t offer kindness.

She simply pointed.

To the dog bowl on the floor.

And whispered: “Crawl.”