A uniformed driver stepped out, walked around the rear, and opened the door.
I stepped out.
I was not wearing the sensible, worn-out canvas shoes or the cheap cardigans they remembered. My foot, clad in a towering, razor-sharp Christian Louboutin stiletto, touched the red carpet.
I was wearing a custom-tailored, emerald-green silk gown that hugged my body perfectly, trailing elegantly behind me. The color brought out the fire in my eyes. Resting against my collarbone was a flawless, multi-million-dollar diamond necklace, a piece of jewelry that had been locked in the Washington family vault for three generations.
I was no longer the cowering, grieving nursing student they had thrown into the mud. I was the embodiment of absolute, terrifying power.
As I strode up the red carpet, the photographers went wild, screaming for me to look their way. But as I passed through the heavy brass doors and entered the massive, glittering ballroom, a different sound took over.
Silence.
The ambient murmur of hundreds of elite guests, the clinking of champagne glasses, the soft jazz playing in the background—it all suddenly, abruptly died away as people turned to stare.
Standing near the center of the room, holding a crystal flute of vintage champagne, was Eleanor.
When her eyes locked onto mine, she physically flinched. The champagne flute slipped a fraction of an inch in her hand, the expensive liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Her perfectly botoxed face went rigid with a mixture of profound confusion and immediate, visceral outrage.
