Married to the Coldest Media King

The drive back to the safe house was quiet. Dylan stared out the window, watching the city lights blur. She had bought herself time, but she had also painted a target on her back. Vance would check. He would make calls.

I have to make it real, she said to the glass.

Carter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Make what real?

The lie. I have to make people believe Garland and I are... aligned.

Carter didn't respond, which was the closest thing to encouragement she was going to get.

She pulled out her phone. The Met Gala was in three days. It was the biggest social event of the year. The entire city would be watching.

She dialed a number. Mrs. Vane, the chair of the gala committee.

Mrs. Vane, it's Dylan Maxwell.

There was a pause. Oh. Dylan. Dear. I'm afraid your invitation was... rescinded. Due to the... unpleasantness.

I know about the funds you siphoned from the charity auction last year, Mrs. Vane, Dylan said, her voice pleasant but deadly. I managed the books, remember?

Silence.

I want my ticket back, Dylan said.

Fine, Mrs. Vane hissed. But you're sitting by the kitchen. Table 40.

I don't care where I sit. Just send the QR code.

She hung up. Step one complete.

Now, the dress. All her couture was locked in an FBI evidence locker. She had nothing to wear.

She directed Carter to a warehouse in the Meatpacking District. Alessandro's studio.

Alessandro was a genius designer who had fallen out of favor because of his drug habit. He owed Dylan a favor. She had paid for his rehab twice.

He opened the metal door, looking disheveled. Dylan? You look like hell.

I need a dress, Ale. For the Met.

He laughed. I have no silk. I have no chiffon. I have nothing.

Dylan walked into the studio. It was filled with industrial junk. Rolls of black, heavy-duty construction tarp lay in the corner.

She pointed to it. That.

Alessandro looked at the tarp. That is dust cloth. For construction sites.

The theme is 'Gilded Glamour,' Dylan said. We are going to deconstruct it. We are going to show them the rot underneath the gold.

Alessandro's eyes lit up. He grabbed a pair of shears.

For the next forty-eight hours, Dylan didn't sleep. She stood still while Alessandro pinned and cut the stiff, black fabric directly onto her body. It was rough against her skin.

While he worked, she had her encrypted phone propped against a stack of books, cross-referencing the Gala's guest list with a leaked database of offshore accounts from Panama. "Planning a party or an assassination?" Alessandro asked, snipping a jagged edge near her shoulder. "A merger," she replied without looking up, her eyes tracing the connections between a board member of Brennan Media and a shell corporation in the Virgin Islands.

Back at the tower, Garland sat at his desk. Carter stood before him.

She threatened Gordon Vance with your name, Carter reported.

Garland stopped typing. He looked up. Did she?

Yes. And she is going to the Met Gala. She is wearing a dress made of... construction tarp.

Garland leaned back in his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man watching a gladiator enter the arena with a wooden sword.

Javion stepped forward. Sir, we should issue a denial. This could damage the brand. Her un-denied presence will be seen as a sign that she has leverage over you.

No, Garland said. Don't deny it.

Sir?

Clear my schedule for Monday night, Garland said. I'm going to the Gala.

But you hate the Gala, Javion protested.

I do, Garland said, turning back to his screen. But this is no longer a party. It's a press conference. And I intend to control the narrative.