Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Silk
Friday evening arrived under a sky the color of bruised iron.
The Grand Opera House looked like an illustration from a fairy tale. Red carpets spanned the wide marble steps leading from the avenue up to the colonnade. Hundreds of paparazzi flashed their lenses as limousines and town cars deposited the city’s financial, political, and cultural royalty.
Inside the VIP holding suite on the second tier, Scarlett Montgomery was admiring herself in a gold-framed triptych mirror.
She held a crystal flute of vintage champagne in her manicured hand. Her makeup was flawless—porcelain skin, sharp crimson lips, eyes smoky and haughty. She wore a bespoke emerald-green velvet robe while her stylist waited by the dressing screen.
A knock sounded at the double mahogany doors.
Brendan Vance slipped into the room, looking breathtakingly handsome in a midnight-blue tuxedo with satin lapels. But his skin was slightly gray beneath the bronze foundation, and his hands were clenched into tight fists inside his pockets.
“Brendan,” Scarlett purred, turning to him with a slow, predatory arch of her brow. “You look nervous, darling. Did the little peasant give you trouble this morning?”
Brendan forced a smile, closing the door behind him and walking to her side. He kissed her cheek with an exaggerated deference that looked more like a servant greeting a queen.
“She’s in dressing room four,” Brendan said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The council gave her the opening slot. Eight o’clock sharp. The livestream across all state cultural channels goes live in twenty minutes.”
“And the suit?” Scarlett asked, her eyes glittering with cold malice. “Did you ensure the fixative was concentrated? I want her skin blistering before she even finishes her first arabesque. I want her to look like a diseased animal under those two-thousand-watt spots.”
“It’s delivered,” Brendan lied, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “She’s putting it on right now.”
What Brendan didn't know—what he couldn't possibly know—was that thirty minutes earlier, Gary’s sister had delivered a different garment box to dressing room four.
Inside my dressing room, I was already dressed.
I wore my own costume—the one Julian had kept in his archive for four years. A simple, severe black silk bodice and long, flowing tulle skirt that moved like dark smoke around my ankles. No corporate logos. No sponsor embroidery. Just pure, unadorned black.
Across the hall, in Scarlett’s private bathroom, the emerald velvet robe had been discarded.
Scarlett’s personal assistant had brought in the special delivery box marked: *Compliments of the Vance Development Group for Miss Montgomery’s post-performance presentation.*
Scarlett had run her manicured fingers over the shimmering white silk with gold thread. “Exquisite,” she had whispered. “At least Brendan’s family has decent taste in tailoring. Help me into it. I want to be wearing this when Brendan brings me to the stage.”
At seven-forty-five, the first bell chimed through the opera house.
Two thousand guests took their seats beneath the massive crystal chandelier. In the third tier, row G, my mother and father were sitting side-by-side, holding hands, my father wearing his Sunday suit, my mother clutching her small beaded handbag, their eyes wide with wonder at the golden gilding of the ceiling.
Down in the orchestra seats, Mason and Liam sat in row A, their programs trembling in their laps.
“Did you talk to Gary?” Liam whispered frantically, leaning toward Mason. “Is the server shut down?”
“Gary blocked my number!” Mason hissed back, his knuckles white against the armrest. “Brendan is insane. He’s going through with it. He thinks he’s going to announce his engagement to Scarlett after Chloe collapses, and her father is going to sign the twenty-million-dollar refinancing deal at the banquet!”
“We need to leave, Mason,” Liam pleaded, sweat soaking through his starched collar. “Something feels wrong. The air feels heavy.”
“We can’t leave!” Mason snarled. “If we leave, Brendan tells Scarlett’s father we backed out. We stay. We smile. We pretend we know nothing.”
At seven-fifty-five, the house lights began their slow, dramatic descent into blackness.
The audience hushed.
Behind the heavy velvet main curtain, I stood in the center of the dark stage, feeling the cool draft rising from the orchestra pit.
To my left, backstage in the wings, Brendan stood with a microphone clipped to his lapel, holding a leather-bound portfolio in his left hand and a velvet ring box in his right pocket. Behind him stood Scarlett Montgomery, dressed in the shimmering white silk unitard, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for the peasant to fail so she could claim her coronation.
Suddenly, Scarlett flinched.
She reached behind her neck, scratching at her collarbone.
“What is in this fabric?” she muttered under her breath, shifting uncomfortably. “My shoulder is burning.”
Her assistant whispered, “It’s raw Italian silk, Miss Montgomery. Perhaps the dry cleaning residue—”
“It’s burning!” Scarlett snapped, her voice rising. She scratched at her ribcage, then her lower back. A fierce, blotchy red rash was already beginning to crawl up the sides of her neck, blooming violently against the porcelain white of her skin.
“Brendan!” she hissed, grabbing his tuxedo sleeve with manicured claws. “What is this? My skin feels like it’s on fire!”
Brendan turned, his eyes widening in sudden, paralyzing horror.
He recognized that rash.
He had spent two hours on the dark web researching the exact progression of the caustic fixative: *Initial redness within five minutes. Intense pruritus. Blistering upon perspiration.*
“Scarlett…” Brendan choked out, his voice dropping into an abyss of panic. “Where did you get that suit?”
“From your assistant!” she shrieked, scratching wildly at her thighs through the silk. “You sent it to my dressing room!”
Before Brendan could scream, the stage manager barked: *“Curtain up in five! Opening performance: Chloe Lin! Roll livestream!”*
The heavy gold curtain rose into the rafters with a majestic rush of air.
A single, blinding white spotlight hit the center of the stage.
And there I stood.
May you like
Dressed in pure black, looking out over the sea of two thousand faces, my eyes locking directly onto the third tier where my mother and father were sitting, leaning forward over the brass rail, smiling through their tears.
***
