Scarlett’s POV
The days leading up to the gala became their own battlefield. Every morning I woke up with my chest tight, my mind already racing, replaying the plan in my head, revising it, sharpening it. By night, my hands would ache from clutching papers or sewing needles. Sleep barely touched me, but I didn’t care. Each hour felt borrowed, each one brought us closer to David’s undoing.
The first night after our strategy session, I laid everything out on the table again, only this time I focused not on the maps or ledgers, but on something smaller, something deceptively simple: a clutch bag.
It was Miriam who’d first suggested it, and the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. A woman carrying a clutch at a gala? Invisible. Expected. No one would imagine it held their ruin.
