Chapter 8 - Backstage at the Grand Ballroom
The Charlotte Grand Ballroom smelled of money, hairspray, and terrified teenage vanity.
Seventy-five girls were packed into the underground preparation tunnels beneath the stage. Racks of pastel chiffons, cascading white laces, and glittering sequined jumpsuits lined the narrow corridors. Makeup artists were screaming about missing contour kits; mothers were frantically pinning corsages; and in the center of the VIP green room sat Brianna.
She was surrounded by three lighting assistants and two local television cameras.
The stolen sapphire gown looked... acceptable from twenty feet away. Vanessa had paid an emergency tailor four hundred dollars that morning to patch over Brianna's terrible cuts with heavy layers of blue tulle, but the patch job was clumsy. The dress had lost its balance; it drifted awkwardly to the left, and the delicate butterfly embroidery was warped, stretched over Brianna’s broader shoulders until the wings looked like smears of ink.
Still, Julian Thorne was standing beside her, nodding with pompous approval.
Thorne was fifty, with silver-tipped hair, a lavender linen blazer, and teeth that had been whitened to an unnatural, chalky glare.
“Brilliant work, Brianna darling,” Thorne said, making sure his face was angled toward the local news camera. “The delicate balance of the flora and fauna... it evokes the fragility of the Southern heart. A pure masterpiece.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thorne,” Brianna said, blinking through inch-long synthetic mink lashes. “I just felt... like my mother’s spirit was guiding every needle stroke.”
“Excuse me.”
The voice sliced through the chatter of the room like a wet razor.
The corridor went dead silent.
Simone stepped through the double doors of the staging tunnel.
She wasn't wearing a robe. She was fully dressed.
The burgundy gown caught the harsh fluorescent light of the basement and seemed to absorb it, drinking the illumination into the deep, dark depths of the wine-red satin. The cantilevered hemp skirt held its wide, violent bell shape, clearing a four-foot radius around her as she walked. Every step Simone took produced a low, rhythmic *thwip-snap* as the internal brass stays flexed and returned to true, giving her gait the deliberate, terrifying majesty of a predatory cat walking down an alley.
Behind her, I walked in my work boots, carrying the small leather notebook that held Thorne’s financial sins.
Brianna’s jaw dropped. The smile melted off her face like cheap candle wax.
Vanessa, standing by the dressing screen, went dead white. Her eyes shot from Simone’s face down to the dress, then to me. Her hands began to shake so hard she dropped her gold-plated purse onto the linoleum floor.
“What is this?” Julian Thorne sputtered, his face flushing crimson. “Who authorized this entry? Registration closed twenty minutes ago! Who is this girl?”
“Contestant number forty-two,” I said, stepping past the cameras and stopping three feet from Thorne. “Nia Carter. Category: Experimental Couture.”
“You’re disqualified!” Vanessa shrieked, lunging forward, her face twisted into a mask of pure suburban fury. “She didn't register! She’s using stolen materials! Julian, call security! Get this trash out of my daughter’s showcase!”
“I have the registration receipt right here, Mr. Thorne,” I said, holding up the stamped card Leo had secured that morning. “And as for the materials... I have the provenance right here in this book.”
I didn't open the book to an invoice.
I opened it to page twelve, where three check numbers, two bank routing strings, and the signature of Julian Thorne were copied under the heading *Gastonia Textile Slush Fund - 2021.*
Thorne glanced down. The color drained from his nose, his lips, his throat. His lavender-clad shoulders seemed to shrink by three inches inside his bespoke jacket.
“You...” Thorne choked out, his eyes darting frantically toward the local news cameras that were still rolling, their lenses catching the terrifying contrast between Brianna’s fraying sapphire tulle and Simone’s architectural crimson masterpiece.
“My model is ready to walk,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, but carry-able enough that the entire front row of contestants heard every syllable. “Or would you prefer I show the regional producers why your last collection in Atlanta was canceled before it hit the floor?”
Thorne swallowed. It sounded like a dry bone breaking in his throat.
“Number forty-two,” he croaked, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his upper lip with a trembling finger. “Staging position... final slot. You walk last.”
“Julian!” Vanessa screamed, grabbing his arm. “Are you out of your mind? Look at that girl! She’s a street rat! Look at what she’s doing to Brianna!”
Thorne violently ripped his sleeve from Vanessa’s grasp.
May you like
“Shut up, Vanessa,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with terror. “Get your daughter in line. The broadcast goes live in ninety seconds.”
***
