Chapter 8 The Invitation

• The invitation arrived the same day as the dress.
• Brandy had just finished her second set and was toweling off backstage when Chardonnay strutted in with a sleek black envelope in one hand and an expression of unholy glee stretched across her glitter-painted lips.
• "Special delivery for the ice queen," she purred, holding the envelope like it might bite. "It came from a courier. Expensive-looking guy. Thought he was gonna spritz me with cologne and offer me a glass of champagne."
• Brandy raised an eyebrow but didn’t reach for it. Her heart had already started to race.
• Chardonnay’s grin widened. "I peeked. It’s from your shadow prince."
• "Konstantine?" Her voice came out soft. Too soft.
• Chardonnay offered a mock gasp. "She speaks his name! And with reverence! Girl, he could melt concrete with the way he looks at you."
• Brandy took the envelope with steady fingers that belied the thrum building in her chest. The paper was thick, black matte with a silver Volkova crest stamped into the seal. When she cracked it open, the scent of sandalwood and cold air met her nose. Beneath the stiff fold was a single line of script.
• Be ready by nine. A car will be waiting.
• No name. No signature. But it was him. Of course it was him.
• Chardonnay was already watching her like a hawk. "Don’t you dare act like you’re not gonna show me what else he sent."
• As if on cue, another girl appeared at the dressing room entrance, hauling in a long black garment bag over one shoulder. "Brandy? This was just dropped off. Guy said it was urgent. And tailored."
• Tailored.
• Brandy stood frozen for a moment before rising to her feet, her knees not quite steady. She reached out and unzipped the garment bag, revealing shimmering folds of fabric in the most exquisite shade of ice blue.
• It was elegant. Ethereal. A modern-day fairytale made silk. The bodice was boned and fitted to hug every curve, with delicate straps that sparkled like frost. The skirt flared gently, whispering of secrets and seduction, and tiny crystals scattered across the hem caught the light like falling stars.
• Chardonnay let out a low whistle. "Sweet merciful God. That is not a dress. That is a weapon."
• Brandy’s fingers lingered on the cool satin. Her breath hitched.
• "You’re not wearing that for a gala," Chardonnay added. "You’re wearing that to ruin lives."
• ---
• The gala was set for Friday. An annual Volkova charity event—the kind that drew political donors, underground bosses, and royalty in equal measure.
• But Brandy barely had time to savor the whirlwind before a ghost from her past stepped into the path she’d so carefully carved.
• Celeste Harrow cornered her two nights later.
• Brandy had just finished closing out a table and was headed toward the dressing room, the hem of her robe whispering against the marble floor of the lounge. The hallway lights flickered with warm gold as she turned the corner—and froze.
• Celeste was waiting. Leaning against the wall with a crocodile smile and manicured hands folded like she owned the world.
• Brandy’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she was thirteen again. Standing in the foyer of the McAllistor estate in her mother’s too-large heels, watching this woman place her polished hands on her father's arm and erase every remaining trace of her mother from their lives.
• "Hello, Milady," Celeste said smoothly.
• The sound of her real name stung.
• Brandy narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
• Celeste tilted her head. "You look well. Midnight Maidens suits you. Not exactly what I envisioned for a McAllistor legacy, but you always did love disappointing expectations."
• "What do you want?"
• "A simple exchange," she said. Her voice was satin over steel. "You’ve gotten quite close to Mr. Volkova."
• Brandy’s chest constricted.
• Celeste’s smile sharpened. "Don’t look so surprised. Delilah’s always had an eye for power. She’s very taken with him. But when she saw you playing lover-girl, well...we had to confirm a few things."
• She stepped forward, high heels clicking like gunshots. "Tell me, does he know who you really are? What your father’s campaign would do if your little stage act were to go public?"
• Brandy forced herself to breathe. "You’re bluffing."
• "Am I? You’re still in every database, darling. One press of a button and the headlines change from charity gala to scandal."
• Brandy’s stomach roiled.
• Celeste leaned in. "There’s a shipment arriving next week. Volkova’s expecting it. I want a name. One name. One supplier. You give me that, and your dirty little secret stays buried."
• "And if I don’t?"
• Her stepmother’s eyes gleamed like cut glass. "Then come midnight at the gala, the world will learn that the heir of Senator McAllistor has been parading around as a Bratva whore."
• ---
• Brandy stood in front of her mirror long after Celeste left, unable to breathe.
• The dress still hung on the back of her door.
• She hadn’t even tried it on.
• ---
• When she arrived at the club the next night, she was quiet. Withdrawn. Her stage makeup flawless but her eyes distant.
• Chardonnay noticed.
• "You look like someone slapped you with a lawsuit and told you to smile about it," she said.
• Brandy gave a weak laugh. "I’m fine. Just tired."
• But when she opened her locker, the edge of the newspaper clipping peeked out from under her makeup bag. She slid it deeper into the shadows.
• She’d been saving it since she found it weeks ago. An old article, crumpled and yellowing:
• TRAGEDY STRIKES PROMINENT MCCALLISTOR FAMILY: WIFE OF SENATOR FOUND DEAD IN PENTHOUSE VIA OVERDOSE
• She had clipped it herself, from the stack her father thought he’d hidden. A reminder. A warning. Proof that love in her world came with chains and poison.
• She couldn’t give that kind of history to Konstantine.
• Couldn’t give him anything if it meant tearing herself open.
• Later that night, Konstantine found her by the bar.
• She didn’t know he was there until she turned and nearly walked into him.
• He caught her elbow lightly. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
• "Just a long night," she said. She pulled her arm back.
• He didn’t let her go right away. His eyes flicked over her face like he was cataloging her every twitch.
• "You didn’t come to say hello earlier."
• "Maybe I didn’t want to."
• He arched a brow. "Or maybe you didn’t want to see what it does to you."
• Her breath hitched.
• His tone softened. "I’m hosting a gala. Friday night. Volkova Holdings. Come with me."
• She blinked. "What?"
• "As my guest. It’s formal. Black tie. There’ll be a car. I’ll send the details."
• Brandy hesitated. Every part of her told her to say no. Run. Hide.
• But something in his eyes—something ancient and bruised and beautiful—told her he wanted her there. Not as a pawn.
• As a person.
• She nodded.
• He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Good. Then I’ll see you in blue."
• ---
• She went home that night and pulled the dress from the bag.
• Brandy stood in front of the full-length mirror in her apartment, the ice-blue dress held up to her body.
• The satin shimmered in the soft glow of the vanity lights, catching shadows like moonlight on water. Tiny crystals stitched along the bodice twinkled with every breath she took, and the boned silhouette hinted at a future she didn’t dare want.
• It looked like it belonged to someone else. Someone brave. Someone who didn’t flinch at threats or love with her whole chest. Someone who hadn’t been forced to disappear.
• Her fingers trembled slightly where they clutched the silk.
• She could still hear Konstantine’s voice: “Then I’ll see you in blue.”
• It was more than a dress. It was a promise. A possibility. A hand outstretched in a world that had never offered her softness.
• And she was about to betray it.
• The thought made her throat tighten.
• She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet her own eyes in the mirror. Not Brandy. Not the dancer. Not the girl with lies behind her lips and fire behind her smile.
• Milady McAllistor stared back.
• Broken. Reckless. Hungry for something real.
• She had run from that name for so long, buried it in perfume and pole routines, letting strangers touch the version of her that didn’t ache for home.
• But now the weight of it settled around her shoulders like velvet and smoke.
• If she betrayed Konstantine, she’d never forgive herself. If she didn’t, her father would know where she’d been. What she’d become. And Celeste... Celeste would burn her to the ground.
• She leaned her forehead against the mirror, dress still pressed to her chest, and closed her eyes.
• The ice-blue silk whispered between her fingers, like it knew what was coming.
• A reckoning.
• A choice.
• Midnight was coming.
• And no one would leave unscarred.