Chapter 2

Three days. That's how long I had before the Annual Blackwell Foundation Charity Gala. Mother had made it clear: I was expected to attend, smile, and play the role of the grateful lost daughter.

What I didn't expect was Elena.

She appeared at breakfast that morning, all soft smiles and dewy eyes. "Mother," she said, reaching across the table to squeeze Catherine's hand, "let me help Aria prepare for the gala. It's what sisters do, isn't it?" Her voice dripped with honey.

Catherine's eyes actually welled up. "Elena, you're so thoughtful."

I watched Elena over the rim of my coffee cup. Her smile was perfect. Too perfect. But I nodded anyway, curious to see where this would go.

The next two days were a masterclass in sabotage disguised as sisterly bonding. Elena took me to three different boutiques, each time "accidentally" bringing me dresses two sizes too small. "Oh no, they must have mixed up the order!" she'd gasp, hand flying to her mouth. The tailors were conveniently "fully booked" for rush alterations. The backup plan—her personal designer—was "out of the country."

By the night before the gala, I had no dress. Elena's concern was almost convincing. "I'm so sorry, Aria. Maybe you could borrow something from Mother's closet?"

Right. Catherine was five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. This was the trap—I was supposed to either skip the gala in shame or show up looking ridiculous in an ill-fitting gown.

But she really underestimated me.

The night of the gala, I came downstairs in a hoodie, perfectly distressed jeans, and Air Jordans that cost more than most of those designer gowns. My hair was slicked back, minimal makeup, and I'd never felt more like myself.

The family's reaction was everything I'd hoped for. Dylan choked on his whiskey. Richard's face turned purple. Catherine actually clutched her pearls—I didn't know people still did that.

"You cannot be serious," Mother breathed.

"Why not?" I shrugged, grabbing my phone. "It's what I'm comfortable in."

"Aria," Richard's voice was dangerously low, "this is a formal event."

"And I'm formally dressed. This hoodie is worth more than Elena's dress." I smiled at my sister, whose perfectly made-up face was struggling between glee and confusion. "Ready to go?"

The ride to the Plaza Hotel was dead silent. Elena kept sneaking glances at me, her satisfaction obvious. She thought she'd won—that I'd embarrassed myself. She didn't realize I'd just played a different game entirely.

The ballroom was a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. And then there was me, in my streetwear, walking in like I owned the place.

The whispers started immediately. Heads turned, conversations stopped mid-sentence. I could feel their eyes, their judgment, their barely concealed disgust.

"Is that the Blackwell girl?"

"She's dressed like a... what even is that?"

"No breeding, none at all."

Elena glided beside me, the picture of grace in her pale pink Dior gown. She leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. "Everyone's staring."

"I know," I said. "That's the point."

She introduced me to the guests with practiced sympathy. "This is my sister, Aria. She's still... adjusting to our world. It's been so hard for her." The subtext was clear: Look at this poor, trashy girl who doesn't belong here.

I smiled and shook hands, cataloging every fake smile, every condescending pat on the shoulder.

"Young lady," an elderly woman in Chanel approached me, her expression pinched, "your... outfit is quite unusual."

"At least I bought it with my own money," I replied cheerfully, "not with misappropriated charity funds."

The woman's eyes widened. Elena's smile froze.

The speeches began after dinner. The MC, some news anchor I vaguely recognized, invited "the Blackwell daughters" to say a few words about the Foundation's work.

Elena went first. She was magnificent—tears in her eyes as she described visiting orphanages, her voice breaking as she talked about the children they'd helped. The audience was eating it up, dabbing at their own eyes, nodding along. She was everything they wanted: beautiful, compassionate, one of them.

Then it was my turn.

I walked to the podium, pulling out my laptop. The AV tech looked confused when I asked to connect it to the main screen.

"Just a few slides," I said with my sweetest smile.

The lights dimmed. Behind me, the massive projection screen flickered to life—but not with inspirational photos of smiling children.

Bank statements. Wire transfers. Account numbers.

"These," I said, my voice carrying across the now-silent room, "are the financial records from the Elena Blackwell Children's Foundation. Notice these transactions?" I pointed to a series of transfers. "Twenty million dollars over the past three years, moved from the charity account to a private holding company."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Elena shot to her feet, face white. "This is—"

"Wait, there's more." I clicked to the next slide. "Audio recording."

Elena's voice filled the ballroom, crystal clear: "The money? Please. Nobody actually audits these things. As long as we throw a fancy party once a year and post some photos, they're happy."

The response was a male voice, older: "But Miss Blackwell, this is fraud—"

"It's only fraud if someone finds out."

The room erupted. Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing like lightning. Society matrons clutched their handbags in horror. Elena's scream cut through the chaos as she collapsed, whether from genuine shock or calculated drama, I couldn't tell.

I didn't move from the podium, letting the pandemonium swirl around me.

Then Dylan was there, his face twisted with rage, and his hand connected with my cheek before I could react. The slap echoed across the ballroom. The crowd went wild—phones out, recording everything.

Security pulled him back, but I barely felt the sting. I tasted blood, copper on my tongue. I looked directly into the nearest camera and smiled.

"This is the Blackwell family," I said clearly. "This is what they do to people who tell the truth."

Richard grabbed my arm, hauling me toward the exit. His grip would leave bruises. "You've destroyed everything," he hissed. "Everything we've built—"

The backstage door burst open. A man in a suit, someone I didn't recognize, rushed in. "Mr. Blackwell. The executor of your mother's will needs to meet tomorrow. It's about the trust fund."

The words dropped like a bomb. Richard froze. Catherine's face went slack. Elena, still being fanned by concerned socialites, looked up sharply.

"What trust fund?" she demanded, voice shrill.

The lawyer's eyes moved between us—me and Elena. "Mrs. Blackwell senior stipulated in her will that the family trust fund—valued at approximately five hundred million dollars—could only be distributed once the true Blackwell heir was identified. Now that Miss Aria has returned..." He paused meaningfully. "It's time to execute those terms."

Elena grabbed Catherine's hand so hard I saw Mother wince. Dylan's smirk had vanished. Richard looked like he might have a stroke.

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Tomorrow's meeting," I said, still smiling despite my split lip, "sounds like it'll be very interesting."

The lawyer nodded once, then left. The five of us stood there in the wreckage of the evening—Elena's charity fraud exposed, Dylan's violence captured on dozens of phones, and now, apparently, a massive inheritance hanging in the balance.

Tomorrow, I thought, everything was going to change.

And I couldn't wait.