I slept terribly.
Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Marian Stark's face—calm, unreadable, intimidating—and the way she had said my name like she was filing a claim against me with the universe.
I woke up in a cold sweat, clutching my pillow.
"Nope," I muttered to myself. "Absolutely not. I'm not dealing with her today. Or tomorrow. Or ever."
I did not want to see Marian Stark.
Not because she had eyes that could slice through steel beams.
But because she had something against me.
She had to.
Nobody stared at someone like that—nobody said a person's name with that mixture of recognition and intensity—unless there was history.
Maybe the original Violet had wronged her.
Maybe Marian was plotting revenge.
Maybe she wanted to ruin me socially, publicly, corporately, emotionally, or metaphysically.
I didn't know what flavor of vengeance we were dealing with, but the safest strategy was:
Complete avoidance.
Strategic retreat.
Cease all Marian-related activities.
Unfortunately, the universe did not believe in mercy.
At precisely 9 a.m., the bedroom door opened.
"Miss Violet?" a maid called softly. "The stylist is here."
I buried my face in the pillow.
"No."
A pause.
"…Miss?"
"Nooooo," I whined, shoving the pillow over my head.
But it was useless.
I could not repel the stylist with my refusal.
She swept into my room like a beautifully dressed storm—a glamorous woman in a sleek black outfit, arms full of garment bags.
"Miss Hawthorne," she said brightly, "I'm here to prep you for the gala!"
Kill me.
She laid out makeup palettes, hair products, jewelry, and three gowns that shimmered like luxury incarnate.
I sat up reluctantly, staring at my impending transformation like someone receiving last rites.
"Do we really need all this?" I muttered.
"Yes!" she chirped. "You are Violet Hawthorne. You must look stunning! Exquisite! Untouchable!"
"I want to look like a background extra," I corrected.
She gasped like I'd kicked a puppy.
"No, no, no—we cannot have that!"
I sighed.
As she began fussing with my hair, I tried to focus on anything other than tomorrow… than the collab announcement… than the Stark Industries presence… than Marian.
But my brain was determined to ruin my life.
"You're unusually tense today," the stylist observed, pinning my hair. "Are you nervous for the gala?"
"Nervous is an understatement," I muttered. "Terrified is closer."
"Oh? Why? It's just a party!"
JUST A PARTY???
A party where the Hawthorne family reputation was on the line.
A party where MARIAI—
I inhaled sharply.
Focus.
Focus.
Do NOT think her name.
If I think her name too much maybe she'll appear like she's Beetlejuice.
The stylist hummed as she curled a strand of hair. "You'll be fine, Miss Violet. You always make an impression."
"Yes," I said grimly. "That is the problem."
Because if I made the wrong impression—if I annoyed Marian, if I offended her, if I even looked at her incorrectly—there was a non-zero chance she would wield her CEO power and bury me socially.
Marian was a force in this world.
The kind of woman who probably had a Wikipedia page with the words "ruthless," "brilliant," and "mysterious" sprinkled throughout.
And I…
I was a reincarnated desk gremlin trying to pass as a rich, composed heiress.
We were not evenly matched.
After two hours of hair-pinning, gown-fitting, accessory-matching, and me trying not to collapse into a puddle of dread, the stylist stepped back and clapped.
"All done!"
I looked in the mirror.
I shimmered.
I sparkled.
I looked… expensive.
And slightly traumatized.
My hair was styled elegantly over one shoulder. My dress was a deep, flattering shade that brought out the violet in my eyes. My makeup looked soft but striking.
I sighed.
"Can I wear sweatpants?"
"No," she said sternly. "You look perfect."
"That's the worst news I've heard all week."
She beamed and began packing up. "The gala is tomorrow evening. I will be here early to help prepare. Try to relax today!"
Relax.
Sure.
I'll just meditate by screaming into a pillow.
Work was not easier.
I tried to focus on case notes, but my attention span had filed a formal complaint and left the building. I reviewed contracts mechanically while imagining every possible scenario that could unfold at the gala.
Scenario 1: I walk into Marian.
Conclusion: Dead.
Scenario 2: I make eye contact accidentally.
Conclusion: Social ruin.
Scenario 3: She corners me and confronts me about whatever imaginary grudge she's harboring.
Conclusion: Literal death.
Scenario 4: Mack introduces me to Marian.
Conclusion: Explosion. Emotional. Possibly physical.
Scenario 5: Father tells me to speak on behalf of the legal division.
Conclusion: Hospitalization.
I scribbled notes on a document, only to realize I'd written:
"HELP ME" In the margins.
Sandra passed by, glanced at my handwriting, and paused.
"Miss Hawthorne? Are you alright?"
"Yes!" I said immediately. "So fine. Super fine. Perfectly fine."
Sandra looked deeply unconvinced but nodded slowly and backed away, as if I were a startled animal.
Meanwhile, rumors around the office had evolved further:
"She's… calm again today."
"Too calm."
"Do you think she's at peace?"
"No, I think she's suppressing something catastrophic."
"What if she explodes at the gala?"
"Oh god—don't say that out loud!"
I dropped my forehead onto my desk.
"I'm not going to explode," I whispered. "I'm going to quietly implode."
When the day ended, I left the firm exhausted from anxiety rather than actual work. The sun was beginning to set as I stepped into the mansion foyer.
Immediately, Father's voice met me.
"Violet."
I jumped.
How did he always appear silently like a vampire?
He gestured toward the living room. "Sit."
I obeyed.
He stood with perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back. Mack sat rigidly on the couch like a man awaiting trial.
Father cleared his throat.
"As you know, tomorrow is a significant event. The collaboration with Stark Industries is crucial to our expansion strategy."
I nodded stiffly.
"The announcement must go flawlessly. No mistakes. No scandals. No confusion."
Was that directed at me? Yes. Absolutely.
He continued, "As previously stated, you will be assisting your brother with the project."
My stomach twisted.
He looked directly at me.
"I expect proficiency, Violet."
And now my stomach fell through the floor.
"Th—thank you," I said weakly.
"For what?"
"For… believing I'm proficient?"
He gave a curt nod. "Good. Do not disappoint me."
Ouch.
He turned toward Mack. "You will brief her on the details after the gala. For now, she only needs to attend, present well, and avoid unnecessary attention."
Avoid unnecessary attention.
I wanted to laugh.
My entire existence was unnecessary attention.
But I nodded.
"Understood," I said.
Father left.
Silence.
Mack looked at me. "You okay?"
I blinked.
"Sure," I said.
He didn't believe me.
I didn't believe me.
Because only ONE thought echoed in my brain:
I'm going to have to see Marian Stark tomorrow.
And she definitely has something against me.
now I can't avoid her.
I'm going to die.
Out loud, I whispered:
"I'm fucked."
Mack blinked. "What?"
"NOTHING."
He frowned.
I stood up abruptly. "I'm going to my room to… meditate."
Mack slowly nodded. "Okay…"
I retreated upstairs like a criminal fleeing the scene of the crime, closed my bedroom door, and let out a silent scream into the air.
Tomorrow, my fate would be sealed.
Tomorrow, I would face the woman who probably hated me.
Tomorrow, I would enter the lion's den dressed like a wealthy appetizer.
I pressed both hands to my face.
"I'm so doomed," I whispered.
And the universe agreed.