Page 41 of Blackwood

BELLA - Age 18

Manhattan, New York

The boutique takes up the entire floor of an unmarked building just off Madison. The kind of address whispered between stylists and heiresses. There’s no sign, no storefront, just a sleek brass call box and a doorman in what has to be a twenty-thousand-dollar suit. The room is carpeted with soft lighting and crystal vases filled with white roses. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t need to be. Here, luxury is inherited not announced.

Ellie glides across the boutique like she’s on a damn runway. Five-inch heels, silent on the carpet, her golden gown catching the light like it had been poured onto her by a Greek god. She pauses in front of a mirror, lips pursed.

She turns with a flick of her wrist toward the stylist, the seamstress, and the woman steaming a rack of dresses by the wall.

“I’m not looking for compliments,” she says. “I want silence. Boys forgetting their last names. Girls rethinking their sexuality. If there’s not at least one scandal by midnight, we’ve truly failed Bells.”

“Subtle as always, darling.” Savannah Whitmore, grace incarnate in a cream silk blouse and pearls that probably have their own security detail, sips her rosé and smiles. Her honey-blonde hair is swept into a flawless chignon, not a strand out of place. Her skin glows with the kind of radiance only generational wealth and daily facials can buy. Even seated, she has this Upper East Side elegance that makes you want to straighten your posture and fix your eyeliner.

“Please,” Ellie waves a hand. “You didn’t raise me to be subtle. You raised me to be iconic.”

“I did no such thing. You came out dramatic.”

“She came out demanding a damn tiara,” I mutter, emerging from the dressing room in a Dior gown the stylist had insisted I try.

Savannah tilts her head, gracious. “It’s… sweet.”

Ellie looks like she’s about to throw her shoe at me. “No. Absolutely not. That’s a dress for a divorcée attending her third charity luncheon. In Connecticut.”

“It’s Dior,” the stylist offers gently.

“And it’s beige,” Ellie snaps. “Bells, no. We’re not going to your godmother’s garden brunch. We’re throwing a party that starts in couture and ends in scandal. This is our villain era. You need something that says:Yes, I just stole your heart, your inheritance, and I looked flawless doing it.”

She hands me a new dress. “Try this before I cry.”

I stare at it. Deep crimson satin, cut like a threat, sharp lines and wicked intent. The bodice is sculpted to lift, cinch, and ruin lives. The slit climbs so high it feels like a challenge and the neckline dips low enough to make even a priest flinch. It’s isn’t a dress. It’s a loaded weapon wrapped in silk.

“El—”

“If Zeke kills me for this,” Ellie says sweetly, “just make sure my eulogy is fabulous. And blame yourself, because if you show up to our graduation party inbeige, I will haunt you. Loudly. In vintage Valentino. Preferably after sneaking out of Zeke’s bed.”

“Did you seriously just sexualize my brother mid-threat?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “What? I’m heartbroken, reckless, and your brother looks like violence in a suit. Let me live.”

Savannah chuckles, unbothered as ever. “She’s a touch dramatic,” she says, rising from her chair with her rosé in hand. “But she’s not wrong.”

She turns to me with a glint in her eye. “Beige is not your color, sweetheart.”

I obey and I step into the dress.

Ellie lets out a gasp so loud it echos. “Oh my God.Shut up. Shut. The hell up.” She looks genuinely offended by how good I look.

Savannah stares. One hand comes to her mouth, the way elegant women react to car crashes or couture miracles.

“Bella,” she breathes.

Ellie crosses the floor like a woman on a mission and circles me, humming like she’s inspecting a new Ferrari.

“You look like heartbreak. You look like you know things. Like you bite.”

“She looks… grown,” Savannah says, voice thick.

I glance up, startled. There are tears in her eyes. Savannah Whitmore’s crying. Over me.