Crimson Exposure

Chapter 7 Crimson Exposure

Re-emerging from the shadows, Heira stepped into the ballroom like a match to oil. Her blood-red gown clung to her pale frame, gleaming like fresh lacquer under the chandeliers. She didn't announce herself. She didn't need to. The silence that followed her arrival was louder than applause—suffocating, electric.

The air had changed.

It wasn't just the glances that trailed her—it was the tightening of the room's pulse, the instinctive shift of people turning toward a tremor they couldn't name yet. She walked as if she didn't feel it. As if the tension didn't belong to her.

But it did.

And it would find her before the night ended.

A server passed, tray trembling. She took a crystal flute, her fingers delicate, precise. She didn't drink. Just held it. The cold stem grounding her, keeping her hands from curling into fists beneath the scrutiny.

Now eyes followed her.

Not just glances—stares.

She met them head-on. Calm. Indifferent. She moved along the ballroom's edge, threading between silk gowns and murmurs. Every step a choice. Every step closer to collision.

Then—

Calliope.

She turned.

Their eyes met across a sea of glitter and glass. A flicker passed over Calliope's face—shock, rage, something quieter underneath. Fear. Just for a second.

Her smile fractured. Wine trembled in her hand. She recovered fast, but not fast enough.

The mask had cracked.

Mrs. Darnell saw her next. And this time, there was no emotion. Just the slow hardening of her gaze. No words. No alarm. She turned and began crossing the ballroom.

She wasn't walking.

She was moving to end something.

Heira didn't wait.

She slipped between two men deep in talk, turned at the edge of the dance floor, and found herself beside a young couple swaying to strings. The girl's head rested on the boy's shoulder. Safe. Unaware.

She stood still.

The weight of the ballroom shifted around her.

Then—

"Heira."

Mr. Darnell's voice. Cold. Unyielding.

She turned slowly. He stood just beyond the chandelier's reach, light cutting across his face like bars.

"I was hoping you wouldn't do something like this," he said.

"I know. You always hope I'll stay quiet."

"This isn't your stage."

"No. But it's your performance. And I'm good at ruining those."

He stepped forward. The air between them strained.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Then remove me."

His eyes narrowed. Calculating. The ballroom was watching. To drag her out now would destroy the illusion.

Before he could speak again—

"Who's this, Sebastian?" a smooth voice cut in. "May I have the pleasure?"

Victor Vex.

In a black tuxedo, champagne glass in hand. He didn't wait for answers—his eyes roamed Heira's figure with polished hunger.

"She's no one of importance," Sebastian said tightly. "An uninvited guest."

Victor smirked. "Anyone can be invited if they give me something worth remembering."

Calliope's lips curved, watching from a distance. Let him devour the wreckage. Let him take the heat.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, turned, and walked away.

Then Ezra appeared.

He'd been watching. Of course he had.

She turned to face him. His face unreadable. Still. But there was something restless behind his eyes, something that couldn't decide between alarm and awe.

"I heard the rumors," he said.

"And?"

"I thought you might show. I thought you might not."

"Glad to see you hedged your bets."

"I was wondering what it would look like if you did."

He looked at her fully now. The red dress. Her stance. The way she absorbed the silence.

"You fit in," he said.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"No. It's a warning."

Her gaze didn't shift. "You think I want to belong here?"

"No," he said. "But you could. And that's what terrifies them."

She paused.

"Someone's going to try something tonight."

"I know."

"Will you stop them?"

Ezra was quiet. Too long. The silence wasn't cruel. Just sharp.

"What happens to you," he said finally, "isn't my concern."

He left without looking back.

She didn't move. She let the words settle, cold and cutting, then stepped back into the crowd.

The room had begun to turn against her.

Security had shifted. Guests stared longer now. The server line moved differently. The air had gone thin, brittle. She tracked the exits. Noted the guards. Calculated.

Then it happened.

"To Heira—the daughter who brought disgrace, betrayal, and shame."

Sebastian stood atop the ballroom's platform, glass lifted.

The music stopped.

The crowd turned.

Flashbulbs went off. Laughter bloomed somewhere.

Heira froze.

The chill that ran through her spine wasn't fear—it was recognition. The script had changed. No more backrooms. No more secrets. This was public.

She turned toward the nearest exit—

Two guards grabbed her.

Rough hands yanked her backward. One shoved her legs out from under her. She fell to her knees. Bone hit marble.

Pain surged. Gasps echoed.

Calliope approached.

Her eyes glittered like broken glass.

The slap came without warning. Hard. Ringing. The sound cracked through the ballroom. Heira's head jerked sideways, blood blooming on her lip.

The room held its breath.

Calliope dumped her wine over Heira's head. A crimson baptism.

Mrs. Darnell stood motionless. William looked stricken. Ezra didn't move.

Sebastian raised his voice again.

"You are no longer part of this family. You never were. Leave now—and never return."

She didn't cry. Didn't speak.

The guards dragged her through the back corridor. Past the kitchen—where the scent of roast meat and citrus clung to the air like memory. Past the cloakroom. Past whispered laughter.

But they made a mistake.

They let go too soon.

Near the elevator, they turned to speak with someone. That second was enough.

She slipped free.

Shoes silent now. Dress wet. Hair sticky. She ran—not out the door—but up.

Back up the stairs.

Back to the highest floor.

To the small guest room where she had left her bag under the bed—her bag with cash, ID, the prepaid phone, the blade.

The silence here was thicker. The party's noise just a distant hum.

She entered the room, locked the door.

Dropped to her knees.

Her hands worked fast. She pulled out the duffel. Everything was still there.

She opened a drawer—grabbed Calliope's lighter, the one she always left out for guests.

Heira paused for a moment.

Then took the folded paper from her jacket pocket—a photo she'd found weeks ago in the study. Her mother, younger. Not smiling, but peaceful.

She folded it again. Slid it into her bag.

The elevator wasn't working.

She took the back stairs.

Fast.

Each step like a heartbeat.

She reached the ground floor. The service corridor stretched ahead. Dim. Empty.

Until—

"Looking for something?"

She turned.

One of the kitchen staff.

She'd seen him before. Clean uniform. Eyes too sharp.

"No," she said. "Just leaving."

"Funny place to leave from."

He stepped forward.

Her fingers brushed the inside of her bra. The knife.

But he was quicker.

He grabbed her wrist—tight. Crushing.

"I think you should come with me."

"No," she snapped.

He squeezed harder.

Pain flared. Her knees buckled—but she didn't scream.

She twisted. Drove her elbow into his ribs. He flinched.

Her hand slipped free. She drew the blade.

Slashed once.

Not deep—but enough.

He shouted, staggering back, hand clutching his side.

She ran.

Out the corridor. Through the fire exit.

Into the night.

It was raining now—cold, slicing.

Her gown dragged behind her like a shadow. Her hair clung to her face. Her lungs burned.

She didn't stop.

Not until the estate's lights were far behind.

Not until the sound of the gala was gone.

She disappeared into the dark.

Vulnerable to anything that could happen.