“Hold still,” I tell Slade as she ducks her head to check her phone for the fortieth time. I see her roll her eyes in the mirror, and I ignore it, pinning another curl into place.

This is the very last chore on the enormous list Livia gave me at the beginning of the week, and right now, I’m more nervous than a bunch of bees trapped in a box.

I haven’t slept more than four hours a night since then. If I haven’t been doing their bidding, I’ve been working on my dress for the ball, silently thanking the powers that be that I learned to sew as a kid.

It’s not the fanciest dress, and it certainly wasn’t the most expensive, but it’s pretty and tasteful and meets the qualifications of a ball gown. Peyton was getting rid of a sapphire-blue dress that was “too last season,” so I took it and made some changes.

It’s one-shouldered and sparkly, with a skirt that flares out when I twirl, and I’ve got a really old pair of silver heels to wear with it.

At last, Slade and Peyton are ready. They fuss around for a while longer, demanding to know whether they look pretty or not, drinking champagne by the flute and touching up their lipstick.

I really, really want to go get ready myself. It won’t take me that long, but I don’t want to be too late to the ball.

But I also agreed not to leave before Slade and Peyton, who said that they don’t want to walk in with me.

There are footsteps down the marble staircase, and the three of us turn to see Livia.

Wearing a blood-red ball gown, her hair up and makeup done.

“Mom, come on,” Slade says, barely glancing at her mother.

I frown.

“You’re going to the ball?” I ask.

Livia struts down the rest of the stairs, barely glancing my way. It’s a chilly night, and she’s got a fur stole around her shoulders.

“Of course I’m going,” she says, her voice pure ice. “I’m eligible, aren’t I?”

Her eyes meet mine, and an involuntary shiver moves through me.

“By the way, Ella,” she says, turning toward the door. “Thank you for doing all those chores this week. Since you were so busy, I thought I’d help out by starting a load of laundry. There’s a load of white sheets bleaching in the machine right now, along with those cleaning rags you had on that mannequin in your room.”

Livia smiles with just her lips, and I’m shocked into silence. My dress was on the mannequin, the one I’m wearing tonight, and she just...

...My dress...

My mouth falls open, my vision blurring. I try to say something but I can’t get any sound out of my mouth, but it doesn’t matter because the three of them are sweeping out the door, and it closes behind them with an ominous thud.

On autopilot, I walk to my room. Tears are rolling down my cheeks, but I barely even feel them as I rush towards the servants’ wing, even though I already know what I’m going to find.

My hands are shaking as I open the washing machine.

There, on top, is my dress. Or what was my dress.

She bleached it into an ugly, mottled gray-blue, but that’s not all. My dress is a horrible color, but even worse, it’s cut into pieces. Little strips, about an inch wide.

I just stare. After this last week, of getting almost no sleep and working my fingers to the bone all for this one tiny spark of hope, all I can do is stare.

How could I think she was actually going to be nice to me? I wonder numbly. How could I be so gullible?

Slowly, I shut the lid of the washing machine. I walk back into my room.

And then I lay on my bed and cry.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzes.

Flynn: How’s the ball?

I take a deep breath and wonder if I should just lie, because I don’t feel like going into it with Flynn. But he’ll get the truth out of me eventually anyway, so there’s no point.

Me: I’m not there.

Flynn: What?

Me: She didn’t let me go.

Almost instantly, my phone rings. It’s Flynn, and before I’ve even said anything he’s yelling.

“What do you mean she didn’t let you? You did everything she asked! You made that dress! You refinished the floors and cleaned out the garage!”

I take a deep breath, try not to cry, and tell him the story. When I finish, there’s a long, long pause on the other end of the line, so long I think he’s gone.

“Flynn?” I ask.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice sounding far away. “And you know what? Ella, I got this.”

“You’ve got what?”

“This fucked-up situation. Fuck Livia and fuck her bitch-ass daughters, you held up your end of the bargain.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I sigh.

“Like hell it doesn’t. Ella, go take a shower and grab your best foundation garments, because I’m gonna be there in twenty minutes.”

Flynn hangs up without waiting for a response, and I’m left lying on my bed, staring at my phone.

Slowly, I sit up. I dry my eyes.

And, wondering what the hell Flynn thinks he’s doing, I head into the shower.