The Dress Trap

Evelyn’s back remained pressed against the cool leather of the car door long after Julian pulled away.

The rest of the drive to the penthouse had passed in total silence. Julian had staring out his window, his bandaged hand resting on his knee, while Evelyn kept her eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the glass. When the car finally pulled into the underground garage, Julian had stepped out without a word, heading straight to his private study on the main floor.

By ten o'clock the following morning, Evelyn was sitting at the glass kitchen island in the penthouse, working her way through a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. Her shoulder muscles were still tight from the night before, and her throat felt dry.

Mrs. Gable walked into the kitchen carrying a large, flat cardboard box wrapped in heavy silver foil.

The housekeeper didn't look Evelyn in the eye. Ever since Julian’s warning two days ago, Mrs. Gable moved around the apartment like a shadow, keeping her head down and speaking only when spoken to.

"This arrived by courier twenty minutes ago, Mrs. Vance," Mrs. Gable said, setting the box down on the granite counter with a soft thud. "It’s marked from the Sterling Estate. There’s a note attached."

Evelyn set her spoon down. She pulled the small white envelope off the top of the box.

Inside was a piece of heavy cream cardstock, written in Victoria Sterling’s sharp, slanted handwriting:

Evelyn,

Since you were thrust into our circle so suddenly, I assumed you wouldn't have time to secure appropriate attire for tonight’s St. Jude Children’s Hospital Charity Gala. My mother kept this vintage designer piece in her private collection. It’s custom couture from 1998. Consider it a gift to ensure you don't embarrass Julian on national television tonight.

—Victoria

Evelyn pulled the silver ribbon off the box and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a heavy, hideous mess of stiff fabric. The dress was a dark, muddy shade of mustard yellow, constructed from thick, outdated polyester-satin that looked like it belonged on a stage prop from thirty years ago. The neckline was high, suffocating, and bordered by oversized, padded ruffles, while the waistline was cut wide, blocky, and entirely unflattering.

To make matters worse, a dark oil stain about the size of a silver dollar was visible near the bottom hem, clearly left untreated for years.

Mrs. Gable glanced into the box, her lip twitching slightly before she masked her face. "Shall I call Mr. Vance’s styling team to bring another option?"

"Antoine’s team is in New York until tomorrow afternoon for Fashion Week," Evelyn said, her fingers running over the rough, stiff seam of the shoulder pad. "Julian mentioned it yesterday."

"I could contact a local boutique..." Mrs. Gable offered, though her tone lacked any real conviction. "Though most high-end showrooms require a forty-eight-hour advance reservation for gala fittings."

Evelyn didn't answer. She pulled the dress completely out of the box, holding it up against her body in front of the mirrored wall near the dining room.

It was a trap, plain and simple. Victoria knew Antoine was out of town. If Evelyn wore this mustard monstrosity to the gala, the fashion tabloids and press cameras would tear her to pieces before she even made it up the red carpet stairs. Victoria’s high-society friends would laugh her out of the room, painting her as a clueless, low-class girl playing dress-up in Julian Vance's world.

And if she refused to go, or showed up in a simple off-the-rack dress from a department store, Harrison would use it as proof that Julian’s new wife was an unpolished liability who didn't fit the family's public image.

Her phone chimed on the counter. It was a text from Julian’s personal assistant, Marcus:

Mr. Vance will pick you up at the penthouse at 6:30 PM sharp. The red carpet broadcast begins at 7:00 PM. Media presence will be heavy.

Evelyn stared at the text, then down at the hideous yellow dress pooled over the back of the sofa.

Her mind raced back to her college years, back when her family still had money and she used to spend weekends helping her mother redesign old thrift store coats and vintage dresses on an old Singer sewing machine in their basement. She knew fabric structure. She knew where to cut, where to pinch, and how to turn stiff, heavy material into sharp structural lines.

She walked over to the kitchen counter, picking up her phone to check the time. 11:15 AM.

She had seven hours.

"Mrs. Gable," Evelyn said, turning around to face the housekeeper.

Mrs. Gable blinked. "Yes, Mrs. Vance?"

"Is there an emergency sewing kit in the laundry room?"

"There is a professional tailoring kit in the hall utility closet," Mrs. Gable replied, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. "Left behind by the previous interior decorator. It has heavy fabric shears, silk thread, and a handheld rotary cutter."

"Bring it to the guest bedroom," Evelyn ordered, her voice completely flat. "And fetch me two boxes of heavy gold safety pins from the office drawer, along with a roll of masking tape."

Mrs. Gable hesitated for half a second, staring at the stiff mustard fabric draped over the sofa. "Mrs. Vance... you aren't actually planning on wearing that, are you?"

Evelyn grabbed the heavy dress, tossing it over her shoulder as she turned toward the guest suite corridor.

"Victoria wants to humiliate me in front of two hundred photographers," Evelyn said, her eyes narrowing as she looked back over her shoulder. "She thinks I'm going to hide in a corner or cry in the bathroom."

She pushed open the bedroom door, dropping the heavy garment onto the center of the king-sized bed.

Evelyn reached into the utility kit Mrs. Gable brought in, pulling out a pair of ten-inch stainless steel fabric shears that gleamed under the overhead lights. She snapped the blades together twice, the sharp, metallic snip-snip echoing through the quiet room.

She looked at the high, padded collar of the dress, then marked a sharp diagonal line across the stiff fabric with a piece of white tailor's chalk.

If Victoria wanted a show, Evelyn was going to give her one she would never forget.

Evelyn pulled a spool of thick, dark gold silk thread from the box, running it through the eye of a steel needle with practiced precision, and smiled softly. "If they want a show, I'll give them one.”