Chapter 1 From Milady To Brandy

• Then
• Milady McAllistor was thirteen the day she found her mother unconscious on the Persian rug.
• The penthouse was too quiet. That eerie silence—the kind that comes only after something terrible has already happened—hung in the air like mist. The lights were low, filtered through the thick velvet curtains drawn tight against the New York skyline. A lamp flickered in the corner. A record spun, skipping slightly, whispering a jazz tune that no longer made sense.
• Her mother's heels were still on, one strap bent beneath her ankle like a snapped wing. Pill bottles littered the coffee table in chaotic clusters, labels peeled and faded. A glass of vodka stood untouched beside a broken crystal dish. Milady remembered the smell—her mother’s floral perfume turned sour, like roses rotting in the sun. And beneath it all, the acrid bite of pills and alcohol.
• She stood frozen in the doorway.
• "Mom?"
• No answer.
• She stepped forward slowly, the soles of her ballet flats soundless against the marble. Her mother’s lipstick had smeared. Her eyes were half open, glazed and unseeing. Milady dropped to her knees, her little fingers shaking as she touched her mother’s wrist, searching for a pulse she didn’t know how to find.
• Then she screamed.
• And screamed again.
• The rest happened in flashes.
• Paramedics arriving. Blue uniforms and latex gloves. Someone covering her mother’s face with a white sheet. A neighbor holding Milady’s shoulders as she shook. Voices muffled like underwater echoes.
• Her mother was pronounced dead at 3:42 a.m.
• Senator Jameson McAllistor arrived at 4:07 a.m., crisp and clean in a navy suit, not a single hair out of place. He didn’t touch his daughter. He didn’t cry. He barely looked at the body. Instead, he turned to one of the officers and said, "Make sure the press doesn’t get wind of this."
• Milady had never hated anyone so completely in her life.
• The funeral was a blur of black and ivory. Closed casket. Cameras at a distance. Jameson shook hands with donors and smiled for photographs. Milady stood alone at the back of the chapel, shivering in a dress that pinched at the shoulders. Not one person asked her how she was.
• Six months later, he married Celeste Harrow.
• Celeste came with a thousand-dollar smile and knives behind her teeth. A CEO of a media empire, a polished socialite with perfect posture and no soul behind her eyes. With her came Delilah and Annabelle. Delilah—cold, confident, and cruel in a way only pretty girls with too much money could be. Annabelle—quieter, distant, always sketching in her leather-bound notebooks.
• The three of them moved into the penthouse and stripped away everything that had belonged to Milady's mother.
• The art was replaced. The furniture modernized. The scent of roses traded for vanilla and eucalyptus.
• Milady faded into the wallpaper.
• Until her eighteenth birthday. That night, she left without a word.
• And never looked back.
• ---
• Now
• "Stage name?"
• The question was asked without emotion, without eye contact.
• The office at Midnight Maidens was dimly lit and smelled of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and something musky beneath. The walls were covered in faded damask paper that peeled slightly in the corners. A gold-trimmed mirror hung crooked behind the desk, reflecting the tired woman seated behind it.
• She had a choppy haircut and chipped black nails. Her name tag read "Mel." She flipped through a pile of glossy headshots with the disinterest of someone who’d seen it all.
• Milady stood on the opposite side, wrapped in a trench coat two sizes too big, her fingers clenched in its pockets.
• "Brandy," she said at last, clearing her throat. The name felt strange in her mouth—slick and strong, like the drink. A name that could belong to someone bold. Someone who didn’t flinch in shadows.
• Mel wrote it down. "Auditions run on time. Ten minutes. Wait in the lounge."
• Milady nodded once and turned to leave the office, her heelss clicking softly against the dark wooden floors. The hallway stretched narrow and shadowed, lit by a single flickering sconce.
• She pulled her coat tighter.
• Her stomach twisted into knots, but her face remained calm. She’d rehearsed every look, every step, every spin in the mirror of a dingy bathroom for weeks. Rhinestones had been hand-sewn onto her outfit until her fingers bled.
• It was now or never.
• The lounge was more lavish than she expected. Velvet couches in midnight blue circled low tables. Gold lighting glowed warmly, casting soft reflections on polished marble. The distant thump of bass pulsed from the stage room beyond, steady like a heartbeat.
• Three other dancers waited. All stunning in their own ways.
• One of them looked up from her compact mirror and raised a perfectly shaped brow. She was radiant. Full curves, skin like polished amber, and hair falling in tight caramel spirals down her back. Her eyes—lined in gold and black—sparkled with amusement.
• "First night?" she asked, her voice smooth as silk.
• Milady nodded. "Yeah."
• "You look like a deer about to bolt."
• She let out a soft breath. "I feel like one."
• The woman laughed and patted the empty cushion beside her. "Sit, baby deer. I’m Chardonnay. And yes, like the wine."
• Milady sat cautiously. "Brandy."
• Chardonnay gave her a once-over. "Cute name. Gorgeous face. Legs for days. You’re gonna make bank, girl. Long as you don’t trip on stage."
• "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Brandy said dryly, but a smile tugged at her lips.
• Chardonnay winked. "I tell it like it is. This place? It’s a game. It’ll chew you up if you don’t learn how to move fast and shine brighter than the others. But if you play your cards right? Midnight Maidens is a castle. And every girl here is trying to be queen."
• Brandy chewed on that.
• "You nervous?"
• She hesitated. "Terrified."
• "Good. Means you care. Use it. Don’t fight the adrenaline—ride it. And don’t think too much. Just... dance like no one’s watching. Until they are."
• Brandy smiled. "You always this wise?"
• "Only when I’m not hungover."
• A voice crackled over the intercom. "Next up: Brandy."
• Chardonnay gave her a gentle nudge. "Go break hearts, baby deer."
• The stage was nearly empty. No crowd. Just the club manager, a woman in dark lipstick holding a notepad, and the DJ fiddling with controls in the booth.
• Brandy stepped into the spotlight, heart hammering. The gold pole shimmered like molten light. Mirrors lined the walls in strategic places. The floor felt cool beneath her stilettos.
• The music started.
• Low. Sensual. Slow.
• Her breath caught - Then she moved.
• Every motion came from somewhere deeper than rehearsal. Her body swayed, rolled, twisted, then curved with elegant defiance. The pole became an extension of her limbs.
• Her nerves faded, replaced by something warm and electric. She flipped, caught the pole in a practiced grip, and landed fluidly on her knees. She tossed her hair. The lights followed her like a halo.
• It wasn’t just a dance…it was a transformation.
• She had been Milady: The invisible heiress. The broken girl with a dead mother and a cold father.
• But here?
• She was Brandy: Sharp. Seductive. In control.
• When the music stopped, she rose slowly to her feet, chest rising and falling with each breath.
• The woman in lipstick snapped her notebook shut. "Hire her."
• Brandy didn’t smile until she turned away.
• Outside, the sky had split open. Rain fell in sheets, glistening on the pavement, turning the world into a blur of neon and shadow. Brandy stood beneath the club's narrow awning, staring out into the storm. The streetlights flickered. A taxi sped past, splashing water.The city felt different than it had that morning. Less like a cage. More like a stage.
• She pulled her coat tight again, breath fogging the air. Behind her, the heavy doors of Midnight Maidens closed with a hush.
• She had escaped the castle. Now she would build her kingdom. And no one would ever make her invisible again.