The glass double doors of the Crown Harbor Hotel opened into the biting December air of Manhattan, but the winter chill was nothing compared to the ice freezing over my veins.

Inside the backstage holding area, tension was thicker than velvet.

Vanessa Moretti stood in front of a gilded mirror, adjusting the ivory wedding gown—my gown—while a team of stylists fluttered around her like nervous birds. Her face was plastered with a triumphant, untouchable smirk.

The door opened.

I stepped into the dressing room, wearing a structured, blood-red Dior suit that screamed unyielding power. I wasn't the quiet housewife in a blue dress anymore.

Vanessa froze, staring at me through the mirror reflection. She dismissed the stylists with a flick of her wrist, waiting until the room was empty except for the two of us.

"You've got some nerve showing your face here, Nora," Vanessa sneered, turning around to face me, her arms crossed over the stolen ivory fabric. "After the stunt you pulled at the gala? Dominic is going to strip you of everything. You'll be living in a studio apartment by the end of the month."

I walked slowly toward her, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor.

"You look lovely in my dress, Vanessa," I said softly, stopping just a few feet away. "It’s amazing what people will wear when they have no original talent of their own."

Vanessa's face twisted with venom. "Your talent? Nobody knows who you are! Dominic made you. Without him, you're nothing."

"We'll see about that," I whispered.

Before she could respond, I turned on my heel and walked out through the private corridor leading directly to the front-row VIP seats—right beside the runway judges and major media heads.