Eclipse Grand Hotel's lobby breathed marble and malice. Crystal chandeliers dripped icy light onto Luna's MOO gown as she approached the elevators, the dress's hand-embroidered constellations catching every photon like trapped stardust.
"Luna!" Mia's nasal whine cut through Muzak renditions of Chopin. "Admiring the decor? Must feel like visiting Versailles after your pigsty upbringing."
The elevator doors sighed open. Luna stepped inside, trailing jasmine and gunpowder. "Does your bark collar need adjusting, Mia? I hear Pavlovian training works wonders for bitches."
Mia's Louboutin jammed the closing doors. Her pupils dilated at the gown's telltale stitching - three million microscopic Swarovski threads forming the MOO logo's clandestine constellation along the hemline. "That's...that's impossible! The Milan collection's centerpiece requires a seven-figure bid just to touch the waiting list!"
Luna leaned against the mirrored wall. The motion caused the gown's quantum silk underskirt to ripple - a proprietary fabric that changed hue with body heat. "Tell me, does envy burn hotter than shame? Or is that a medical question for your plastic surgeon?"
Mia's claw lashed out. The tear echoed like a gunshot through the lobby's false tranquility.
"Oops." Mia fluttered spidery lashes. "Must've snagged on something."
Luna's smile could've flash-frozen the hotel's champagne fountain. She closed the distance, her grip finding the hidden zipper along Mia's gauche Gucci knockoff. The rip of cheap polyester drowned Mia's shriek.
"Rabid dogs get muzzled," Luna purred, stepping over the puddle of tulle now pooling around Mia's ankles. "Consider this your spay appointment."
—
Suite 1701 reeked of gardenia and deceit. Margaret materialized from a cloud of Diorissimo, her Botoxed brow attempting concern. "Darling! Let's find you something suitable."
The maid's trembling hands presented a confection of Pepto-Bismol pink taffeta - MOO's infamous "Cotton Candy Catastrophe" from their failed children's line.
"My personal favorite," Margaret lied through veneers. "It screams innocence."
Luna's fingers brushed against black liquid leather lurking at the rack's shadowed end. The attendant paled. "N-not that one, Miss! It's...unfinished."
"Perfect." Luna stepped behind the privacy screen. The dress slithered over her curves like sentient oil, its 360-degree camera-dazzle fabric drinking light and spitting back supernovas.
Margaret's champagne flute shattered. "You can't—"
"Watch me."
—
The ballroom's oxygen vanished when Luna descended. Two hundred heads swiveled in synchronized avarice. Conversations flatlined mid-syllable.
Claire's moan of wounded vanity harmonized with buckling stilettos as guests surged forward. "She's wearing MOO's Black Widow prototype! The one they retired after the Dubai incident!"
Mia's ruined dress gaped like a flesh wound. "That fabric's illegal in fourteen countries!"
Luna accepted a coupe of Bollinger, the dress's reactive panels blooming blood-red where her fingers warmed the crystal. "Darling, prohibition makes the party."
Xander's whistle pierced the awed silence from the mezzanine. "Caleb's gonna need a fainting couch when he sees this."
Jaden adjusted his AR glasses, live-streaming to 12.7 million followers. "His jet's entering airspace now. ETA eight minutes."
—
The grand staircase became a runway. Luna's every step triggered the dress's defense mechanisms - razor-pleat flanges rising along the bodice, hemline filaments releasing nano-dust that neutralized camera flashes.
Claire intercepted her at the caviar station. "Enjoy your fifteen minutes, stepsister. The Black Widow eats its mates."
Luna sampled ossetra from a mother-of-pearl spoon. "Better a widow than a spinster."
The insult hung crystallized in the chandelier's glare when the ballroom doors exploded inward.
Caleb's entrance shattered champagne flutes and prenuptial agreements alike. The dress's threat-assessment subroutines activated, collar spines rising in challenge until recognition protocols identified him as Mate: Alpha Clearance.
Their collision sent shockwaves through the crowd. Caleb's hands found bare skin between the dress's armor plates, his growl vibrating through her sternum. "Remind me to promote whichever designer enables my wife's war crimes."
Luna's laughter ignited the dress's final defense - a pheromone mist that left nearby guests clutching their pearls and partners. "Welcome home, Mr. Thorn. Care to dance?"
The ensuing tango would later trend as #BloodWaltz across seven continents. Caleb led with predator's grace, his every touch bypassing the gown's AI to ignite primal synapses. When the music crescendoed, Luna's backward dip exposed her throat - and the bite mark Caleb had left three nights prior.
Flashbulbs documented the tableau: mafia prince and his lethal bride, the dress's reactive panels now pulsing Thorn Enterprises' logo in warning-red.
Claire's muffled sob signaled the death knell of Carter family pretense. Margaret's emergency Botox call went unanswered.
As security escorted sobbing influencers from the premises, Jaden's live-feed counter hit nine digits. Xander toasted the drone cameras with a hijacked magnum of '45 Krug.
And high above the carnage, in Suite 1701's discarded garment bag, the MOO prototype began self-destructing - its nano-fibers dissolving into a champagne flute, leaving only a thorn-shaped USB drive containing Margaret's offshore accounts.
The game, it seemed, was evolving.
And Luna Thorn wore its crown.
Margaret's grip tightened on Luna's arm, her French-tipped nails leaving crescent moons in the quantum silk. The chandelier's glare caught the sweat beading beneath her foundation. "Darling," she cooed, saccharine as arsenic-laced honey, "you look radiant. Doesn't she, Claire?"
Claire materialized like a vengeful phantom, her Valentino handkerchief already damp with glycerin tears. "Mom spent months sourcing that gown!" Her whisper carried across marble floors to the vulturine crowd. "How could you steal my birthday surprise?"
Mia swooped in, forensic in her faux concern. She plucked at Luna's hemline, acrylic nails catching on deliberately loosened stitching. "Look—the MOO authentication code's missing! This is counterfeit!"
The revelation detonated. Flashbulbs erupted as influencers zoomed in on the "flaw," their live feeds captioning #FashionFraud in real-time. Richard Carter materialized like a specter of failed patriarchy, his Rolex rattling against a champagne flute.
"Enough!" His bark cracked octaves too high. "Luna, apologize and change."
Luna's shoulders curled inward—a masterclass in wounded vulnerability. "I'm sorry, Daddy." The childhood endearment hung like a grenade pin. "Aunt Margaret said… said city girls need proper clothes." A single tear breached her lash line, tracking through contouring to expose the scar beneath. "I just wanted you to be proud."
The crowd's murmur curdled. A Silver Lake art curator turned to her wife: "That's Richard Carter's disowned heir? The one they branded a murderer?"
Claire's porcelain mask fissured. "She's lying! Mother would never—"
"Enough, Claire." Margaret's smile could've glaciated the Mediterranean. "We'll discuss this privately."
But the damage metastasized. TikTokers swarmed Luna with protective fervor, their ring lights exposing Claire's uneven Botox. A Gen-Z heir apparent from the Van der Woodsen clan live-tweeted: Cinderella's stepsisters got NOTHING on this gaslighting hellscape.
Xander materialized at the raw bar, slurping an oyster with theatrical relish. "Check the security feed, Jaden—Caleb's jet just entered Canadian airspace. Twenty minutes till detonation."
Jaden's fingers flew across a holographic keypad. "I've redirected his in-flight newsfeed to our highlights reel. Heart rate's spiked 30%."
—
In the ladies' lounge, Luna blotted faux tears with a monogrammed handkerchief—CT embroidered in venom-green thread. The hidden mic in her choker transmitted Claire's hissed meltdown to Jaden's servers.
"You promised she'd look ridiculous!" Claire's whisper could flay hide. "That dress was supposed to—"
"Enough." Margaret's compact snapped shut. "We adapt. By dawn, every outlet will spin this as a PR stunt."
Luna's reflection smiled in the avant-garde mirror. Her fingers found the gown's concealed pocket, extracting the real MOO authentication chip Margaret's courier had delivered to the wrong suite.
Click.
The livestream alert blared simultaneously on 237 devices. @MOO_Couture's official account posted: Tonight's true masterpiece walks in courage. @LunaThorn wears our experimental X-09 prototype—the future of ethical fashion.
The ballroom's axis tilted.
Claire's anguished "NO!" harmonized with shattering crystal. Margaret's migraine pulsed in time with the security team's stampede.
Xander toasted Luna with Claire's abandoned champagne. "Checkmate, little Thorn."
As the crowd's allegiances shifted like tide charts, Luna ascended the staircase where Caleb's silhouette now dominated the entrance. His Armani overcoat dripped midnight and transatlantic fury.
Their eyes met—conspirators, collaborators, equals.
The chapter closed not with a kiss, but a raised eyebrow. Luna's fingers brushed the chip now burning holes in her clutch. Some games required no audience.
And the Carter dynasty's downfall?
That was merely Act One.