Chapter 6

Her hands trembled for just a moment. Then they steadied. She straightened the locket and lifted her chin. She grabbed her keys and drove to the Ellsworth estate.The driveway was a parade of black cars: Bentleys, Mercedes, a Rolls-Royce with a driver who looked bored. Valet attendants in white gloves opened doors for women in diamonds and men in custom tuxedos.Lorraine pulled up in her Honda. The valet looked at the car, then at her, then back at the car."Ma'am, the service entrance is—""I'm a guest," Lorraine said.He hesitated, then opened her door. She stepped out. The night air smelled like jasmine and expensive cologne. Music drifted from inside: a string quartet playing something soft and classical. The marble steps gleamed under golden light. She walked through the front door.The ballroom was enormous. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with angels. Ice sculptures shaped like swans sat on tables draped in ivory linen. Waiters in black vests carried silver trays of champagne. The room buzzed with laughter, perfume, and the quiet clink of wealth.Lorraine stood at the entrance and took a breath. She recognized this feeling: the nerves, the electricity, the moment before the lights go up. But this wasn't a concert. And these people weren't her fans. Not anymore.Victoria spotted her almost immediately. She was mid-conversation with two friends near the bar. Her dress was white, tight; her diamonds caught the light like little weapons. She turned and saw Lorraine, and her eyes went wide—not with surprise, but with delight. The kind of delight a cat shows when the mouse walks into the open."Oh my god," Victoria said, lowering her glass. "She actually came."She set down her champagne and walked toward Lorraine. Her two friends followed like shadows, their heels clicking in unison across the marble.Victoria stopped in front of Lorraine and looked her up and down slowly, head to toe. Her gaze stuck on the dress, the emerald dress. And something shifted in Victoria's face. She recognized the design—not the person, just the dress. She'd seen it in a fashion magazine once, a vintage photograph of the legendary Lorraine Harris performing at Madison Square Garden. That dress had become iconic: it was in fashion retrospectives, museum exhibits, coffee table books.Victoria's lip curled. "Where did you get that dress?"Lorraine straightened her back. "It's mine."Victoria laughed: loud, sharp, like breaking glass. "Yours? That dress is a replica of Lorraine Harris's gown. The Lorraine Harris. And you, a cleaning lady, are standing in my ballroom wearing a cheap knockoff like you're somebody."

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