Chapter 5

I didn’t leave Maya’s apartment for four days.

The first day, I called a lawyer. A public defender Maya found through a friend of a friend. He listened to my story with the weary patience of someone who’d heard a thousand variations of the same tale.

“Did anyone see your stepsister near your bag?” he asked.

“No. But she was there. She had access.”

“Can you prove she planted the bracelet?”

“No, but—”

“Then we have a problem.” He sighed. “The good news is Mrs. Wimberton isn’t pressing charges. She got her bracelet back and apparently doesn’t want the publicity. The bad news is your former employer filed a police report. It’s on record now. Even without charges, it’ll come up in background checks.”

“So I’m branded a thief. Forever.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But Ms. Pembroke, I have to be honest with you. Without evidence of a frame-up, this is going to follow you.”

The second day, I tried to find another job. I spent eight hours on my laptop, applying to every event planning position in the tri-state area. Boutique hotels. Catering companies. Wedding planners. Corporate event firms.

By evening, I had three rejection emails.

By the next morning, I had fifteen.

The industry was small. Word traveled fast. Diana Pembroke? The one who stole from a client at Veridian? Absolutely not.

The third day, I didn’t get out of bed.

Maya came into the room around noon. “Di? I made eggs. You need to eat.”

I didn’t answer.

“Diana. I’m coming in.”

She entered carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Set it on the nightstand. Sat on the edge of the bed.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

I rolled over, facing the wall. “I can’t do this, Maya. I can’t fight her. She’s destroyed everything. My career is over. I’m blacklisted. No one will hire me. I have a police report with my name on it calling me a thief.”

“So we fight back. We prove Genevieve framed you.”

“How? There’s no evidence. No witnesses. Nothing. It’s her word against mine, and guess whose word everyone believes?” I pulled the blanket over my head. “I should have known this would happen. I’m the disappointment, remember? The boring one. The wallflower. Of course I’d end up with nothing.”

Maya was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood.

“I’m going to say something, and you’re not going to like it.” Her voice was firm. “You’re right. Genevieve won. She took your fiancé, poisoned your father against you, and destroyed your career. She won every battle.”

The words were knives.

“But you know what? She only wins if you stay in this bed. If you give up. If you let her turn you into this broken thing she wanted you to become.” Maya pulled the blanket down, forcing me to look at her. “The Diana I know doesn’t quit. She’s a fighter. She’s survived a dead mother, a narcissistic father, and years of psychological torture from a sociopath stepsister. She doesn’t get to give up now.”

“There’s nothing left to fight for.”

“There’s you. You’re worth fighting for.” Maya’s eyes were fierce. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. I know you’re in the darkest place you’ve ever been. But Diana, you have to survive this. Because on the other side of this hell, there’s a life waiting. A better life. One where you’re not trying to please people who don’t deserve you.”

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her.

But all I felt was emptiness.

“I’m tired, Maya.”

“I know, honey. I know.” She kissed my forehead. “Eat the eggs. Sleep. Tomorrow we’ll try again.”

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

I stared at the plate of eggs until they grew cold.

The fourth day, I forced myself to shower. To put on clean clothes. To sit on the couch like a person instead of a corpse.

Maya came home from her studio around six, carrying takeout bags.

“Thai food. Extra spring rolls. Your favorite.”

We ate in silence. The TV played some sitcom neither of us watched.

“I got an email from my landlord,” Maya said finally. “Rent’s due in two weeks.”

“I’ll find somewhere else to stay. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden. I’m just saying…”

I had seventeen hundred dollars in my checking account. My last paycheck from Veridian had been withheld pending their internal investigation. My savings had been depleted helping pay for wedding expenses.

I was broke. Jobless. Homeless except for Maya’s charity.

“I’ll figure something out,” I lied.

Maya set down her food. “Okay. New plan. Tonight, we’re going out.”

“I can’t—”

“Not a suggestion. We’re going to The Vault.”

I stared at her. “The Vault? Maya, that place is… I can’t afford—”

“My treat. Consider it therapy.” She stood, pulling me up by the hands. “You’ve been in this apartment for four days wearing the same sweatpants. You’ve cried yourself empty. Now it’s time to remember you’re alive.”

“I don’t want to go to a club.”

“One drink. That’s all I’m asking. One drink to prove to yourself you can still function in the world.”

“The Vault has a waitlist months long. We can’t just—”

“I know a guy.” Maya grinned. “One of my collectors is a member. He owes me a favor. We’re on the list for tonight.”

The Vault was legendary. An ultra-exclusive club in the Meatpacking District where billionaires and celebrities went to be seen. Or to disappear, depending on their mood. I’d never been. Places like that were for people like Leo and Genevieve, not for girls like me.

“I have nothing to wear.”

“Yes, you do.” Maya dragged me to her closet. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”

She pulled out a dress I’d never seen before.

Midnight blue silk, fitted, with a neckline cut low enough to be daring without being obscene. It was beautiful. Expensive. Nothing like anything I owned.

“I can’t wear that.”

“Yes, you can. You’re going to wear it, and you’re going to walk into that club like you own the place. Because Diana Pembroke is not going to let her evil stepsister win.” Maya thrust the dress into my hands. “One drink. To remember you’re alive. Then if you want to come home and crawl back into bed, fine. But you have to try.”

I looked at the dress. At my best friend’s determined face. At the choice in front of me: stay in this apartment drowning in my own misery, or step back into the world.

Even if the world had chewed me up and spit me out.

“One drink,” I said finally.

Maya’s face lit up. “One drink. Now go shower. We leave in an hour.”

I stood under the hot water for twenty minutes, letting it wash away four days of tears and sweat and despair. I washed my hair with Maya’s expensive shampoo. Shaved my legs. Went through the motions of being a person.

When I emerged wrapped in a towel, Maya had set up a full makeup station on her bathroom counter.

“Sit. I’m doing your makeup.”

“Maya—”

“Nope. My rules tonight. You’re the canvas, I’m the artist.”

I sat.

Maya worked with the focused intensity she brought to her paintings. Foundation to even out my blotchy skin. Concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of crying. Smokey eyeshadow in shades of gray and silver. Mascara that made my lashes look impossibly long. Lipstick the color of red wine.

“There.” She stepped back, admiring her work. “Look.”

I turned to the mirror.

The woman staring back at me was almost unrecognizable. My cheekbones looked sharp. My eyes looked huge and mysterious. My lips looked like an invitation.

I looked like someone who belonged at The Vault.

I looked like someone who hadn’t spent four days wallowing in her own destruction.

“Now the dress.”

I slipped into the midnight blue silk. It hugged every curve, fell to mid-thigh, transformed my body into something sleek and confident. Maya zipped it up, then handed me a pair of strappy heels.

“I’ll break my neck in these.”

“You’ll be fine. Pain is beauty, beauty is pain, et cetera.”

I stepped into the heels, wobbling slightly. Maya steadied me.

“Hair up or down?”

“Down. Definitely down.”

She worked my hair into loose waves, the kind that looked effortless but probably took skill I didn’t possess. Spritzed me with perfume. Handed me a small clutch.

“Phone, ID, credit card. That’s all you need.”

I slipped my things into the clutch, my hands shaking slightly.

Maya changed into her own outfit, a black leather skirt and silk top that somehow looked both elegant and edgy. She was ready in ten minutes, the kind of effortless beauty I’d always envied.

“You ready?” she asked.

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

We took a car to the Meatpacking District. The city looked different from behind the window. Brighter. Louder. Full of people living their lives while mine had imploded.

The Vault occupied an unmarked building on a cobblestone street. No sign. No obvious entrance. Just a single black door with a small gold keyhole emblem.

A line stretched down the block. Beautiful people in expensive clothes, hoping to be chosen, to be deemed worthy of entry.

Maya walked past all of them, straight to the door, where a mountain of a man in a suit stood guard.

“Maya Rossi. Plus one.”

He checked his tablet, then nodded. Opened the door.

“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Rossi.”

We stepped inside.

The Vault was exactly what I’d imagined and nothing like I’d expected. Dark wood and leather. Low lighting from crystal chandeliers. Music pulsing just loud enough to feel in your chest. The air smelled like expensive cologne and ambition.

The main floor was a series of intimate spaces. The bar stretched along one wall, backlit bottles glowing like jewels. Plush seating areas scattered throughout. A dance floor where bodies moved in the shadows.

And everywhere, beautiful people. The kind of people who belonged in magazines, who moved through life with the confidence of knowing they were wanted.

My courage faltered.

“Maya, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” She grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s get that drink.”

She led me through the crowd toward the bar. People parted for her, drawn to her energy, her confidence. I followed in her wake, feeling like an imposter in borrowed clothes.

The bartender was already mixing drinks, efficient and graceful.

“Two dirty martinis,” Maya ordered. “Extra olives.”

I hadn’t had a martini in years. Leo preferred wine. Sophisticated wine at sophisticated restaurants with sophisticated conversation.

The bartender set two glasses in front of us. Maya raised hers.

“To Diana Pembroke. Who has survived the unsurvivable and will rise from the ashes like a phoenix with better taste in men.”

Despite everything, I smiled. Raised my glass. “To not being dead yet.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We clinked glasses.

I took a sip. The gin burned going down, sharp and clean and honest. Not pretending to be anything other than what it was.

I took another sip.

Maya watched me carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m wearing someone else’s life.”

“Good. Your old life sucked. Time for a new one.” She squeezed my hand. “One drink, remember? Then we can go home if you want.”

I looked around The Vault. At the people laughing, dancing, living. At the world that had continued spinning while mine fell apart.

Maybe Maya was right. Maybe I needed to remember I was alive.

Even if I didn’t feel like it yet.

“One drink,” I agreed, raising my glass.

I didn’t know my entire life was about to change.

I didn’t know someone was watching me from across the room.

Someone who would become my salvation and my destruction.