The Metropolitan Museum's winter gala sparkled like something out of a modern fairy tale. Light refracted off crystal installations, casting diamond-shaped patterns across tuxedos and champagne flutes. Caroline Monroe entered with precision timing—just late enough to command attention, just early enough to seem effortless.
She wore red.
Not just any red. A crimson silk gown she'd sketched herself—draped, slit, unapologetically bold. A silent message stitched into every seam: *I am still here.*
The cameras loved her. Flash after flash. Socialites whispered.
And then—
“Iris Caldwell," someone gasped near the bar.
Caroline turned.
Iris was walking in through the side corridor, hair in soft waves, wearing a silver slip dress that shimmered like moonlight. Not a designer piece, but it cl
