Chapter 517:
Aurora took the drive. “This is the nail in the coffin.”
“Economic war is done,” Elias said, closing his laptop. “Now comes the PR war.”
“The Gala,” Aurora said.
“William sent over a dress,” Elias said, gesturing to a long white box on the sofa. “He said, and I quote, ‘Wear white. Look innocent. Let them think you’re the victim.'”
Aurora walked over to the box. She opened it. It was a beautiful gown—white silk, delicate, pure.
She stared at it for a moment, then closed the lid.
“No,” Aurora said.
“No?” Elias raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not a victim,” Aurora said, turning to him. “And I’m not innocent. I’m the executioner.”
She walked to the closet where she had hung her own selection.
“I’m wearing red.”
The ballroom of the Ziegler Estate had hosted kings and emperors, but tonight, the air was charged with a different kind of electricity.
The Welcome Gala was ostensibly to celebrate the “recovery” of the estate, but everyone knew it was a trial by fire. The room was packed with Valoria’s elite, their whispers creating a low hum like a hive of bees.
The Dowager and Zelda were notably absent, their absence a gaping hole in the social fabric of the room. Instead, the guests eyed each other nervously, wondering who would be the next to fall.
Near the orchestra, a waiter moved with stiff precision. His eyes scanned the crowd, his hand hovering near the inside of his jacket. He wasn’t serving drinks.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the top of the grand staircase.
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William stood there, looking dashing in his tuxedo. He raised a hand for silence.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” William announced. “The true Lady of the House.”
He stepped aside.
Aurora appeared.
She wasn’t wearing white. She was wearing a gown of deep, blood-red velvet. It was strapless, structured like armor, with a slit that went up to her thigh. It was a dress that screamed power. It was a declaration of war.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.
Beside her, Elias Thorne looked like the devil’s own bodyguard, dark and lethal.
They descended the stairs. Every step was perfectly timed. Aurora didn’t look at the floor—she looked straight at the crowd.
A Duchess dropped her champagne glass.
Smash.
The sound echoed in the silence.
The guests stared. It wasn’t just the dress. It was the face. With her hair swept up and the jewels—the Vance family diamonds—around her neck, Aurora looked exactly like Seraphina did twenty years ago. Before the darkness.
“Impossible,” an old Baron whispered.
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.
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