Evelyn Harrington.

The disgraced daughter.

The phantom who had evaporated into thin air exactly five years ago.

The black sheep my family had steadily assured the public was hopelessly unstable, bitterly ungrateful, and living in quiet, medicated shame somewhere far out of sight.

Directly behind me stood my older sister, Celeste.

Her manicured fist was still knotted tight in the ruined, torn fabric of my blouse.

She was panting slightly, a feral, triumphant smile stretching across her face, as if she’d just landed the final, lethal blow in a blood sport only she knew we were playing.

“Look at her,” Celeste brayed, her voice ringing off the vaulted ceiling.

Her diamond tennis bracelet flashed blindingly under the chandeliers as she pointed at my exposed flesh.

“Five whole years gone, and she crawls back tonight dressed like an absolute nobody.

No husband. No career. Just these hideous scars.”

A collective, low murmur of horror and morbid fascination rippled through the elite crowd.