Winter Formal - White Dress, Red Hands
994 Words
Snow had started to fall at St. Edevane by the time the first carriages arrived.
The Winter Formal was the school’s crowning tradition: glass chandeliers suspended in the old ballroom, violins echoing through corridors of candlelight, and students transformed into royalty for one night only.
But for Lilith Crane, it was not a fairytale.
It was a funeral.
She stood before her mirror in the dressing suite, wrapped in white silk that clung like innocence. Her dark curls framed her face like a halo turned upside down, and her lips—painted red—were not meant to be kissed.
They were meant to be remembered.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Ronan.
He didn’t knock. He never did.
His gaze swept over her like a scalpel. Not admiring. Claiming.
“You’re dressed for purity,” he said.
She turned. “I’m dressed for war.”
He stepped closer. Adjusted her necklace—an antique choker he’d gifted her days before.
“Do you know what this means?” he asked, his fingers brushing the blood-colored gemstone at her throat.
Lilith nodded. “Ownership.”
He leaned in. Whispered: “Not yours.”
She smirked.
“Not yet.”
---
They arrived at the ballroom separately, but the air between them was visible—tension wrapped in silk and static.
Alec was already there.
Standing alone near the balcony doors, dressed in black, no tie, his hair tousled like a prince carved from madness. He held no drink. Spoke to no one. He just waited.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
Lilith did not look away.
---
The music swelled. The waltz began. Couples spun beneath the chandeliers, laughter swirling in gold and champagne.
Ronan offered her his hand.
But Lilith stepped away.
And walked toward Alec.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like cracks in stained glass.
Ronan didn’t move. His face unreadable. But his eyes burned like frostbite.
Alec’s smile when she reached him was slow, empty, a mockery of something that once might’ve been affection.
“You came to me,” he said.
“No,” Lilith replied. “I came to finish this.”
He took her hand anyway. Led her onto the dance floor. And for three slow minutes, they danced like they hadn’t ruined each other.
“You look beautiful,” Alec said.
“You look dangerous,” she replied.
“I am.”
“I know.”
As they spun, he leaned in.
“You didn’t have to destroy him,” he whispered. “He’s my father. Not me.”
“You never wanted to be different,” she said. “You just wanted to be adored.”
His hand tightened on her waist.
“And what do you want?” he asked.
Lilith smiled.
“Control.”
---
They broke apart as the song ended, but Alec didn’t release her.
He stepped close—too close—and pressed something into her hand.
A flash drive.
“What is it?” she asked.
His grin sharpened. “Insurance.”
“For what?”
“For when he turns on you.”
She looked down at it. Then up.
“I’m not yours to warn anymore.”
“You were never mine,” Alec said, “but you were mine to break.”
She stepped back.
Then turned—straight into Ronan Vale.
He took her hand without asking.
“Time for the real dance,” he said.
---
They didn’t waltz.
They moved.
Ronan didn’t lead with tradition. He led with possession. Every turn was a statement. Every hand placement a warning.
Eyes followed them like hounds.
“I saw you with him,” he said, voice low.
“Of course you did.”
“You’re not afraid to provoke me.”
“Would you love me if I was?”
He paused. Only for a heartbeat.
Then: “No.”
They spun again, and she let her head fall back in his arms, throat exposed, vulnerable.
“You trust me?” he asked.
“No,” she replied.
“But I need you more than I hate you.”
That was enough.
For now.
---
Halfway through the evening, the scream broke the music.
High. Sharp. Real.
The music stopped. Everyone froze.
Then the glass shattered.
People turned toward the corridor that led to the bathrooms.
Blood on the wall.
A body at the foot of the marble stairs.
A teacher—Mr. Harrow, head of disciplinary affairs.
Face pale. Throat gashed. Eyes open and glassy.
Chaos erupted.
Students screamed. Faculty shouted. The music never resumed.
Lilith didn’t move.
Ronan was already beside her.
His hand took hers, calm amid the storm.
“Don’t say a word,” he whispered.
“I didn’t do anything,” she replied.
“I know,” he said.
“But someone wants us to think you did.”
---
Outside, as the ambulances arrived and the ball was shut down, Alec stood in the snow.
Watching.
No fear. No guilt. Just clarity.
He lit a cigarette, even though he never smoked.
And when Lilith passed him—hand in hand with Ronan—he bowed.
Mocking.
Then whispered:
> “This is the first body. There will be more.”
---
Back in Ronan’s dorm, Lilith sat on his bed, heels kicked off, dress wrinkled, hands shaking.
He poured her a drink.
Scotch. Neat.
She drank it in silence.
Then said, “Do you think he killed him?”
Ronan didn’t answer.
Because deep down, they both knew.
---
Lilith lay down in Ronan’s bed that night but didn’t sleep.
She stared at the ceiling while he watched her from the chair.
“He’s not trying to win me back,” she said.
“No.”
“He’s trying to burn the ground we stand on.”
Ronan nodded. “And you know what that means.”
She turned her head slowly.
“It means we end him first.”
- Writer
