The two days leading up to the infamous tea party with Isabelle Thorne were, for Zoe Carter, a masterclass in controlled anxiety and meticulous preparation. Sleep was a luxury punctuated by vivid nightmares where Isabelle sported fangs and a forked tongue. By day, however, Zoe transformed her opulent suite at Sterling Manor into a war room.
She devoured every scrap of information she could find on Isabelle. The official narrative was, of course, flawless: philanthropic darling, society Hostess with the Mostest, devoted friend to the Sterling family. But Zoe, armed with her knowledge of Manhattan's Ice King and a healthy dose of modern cynicism, read between the lines of a Sawning society columns and gushing charity blurbs. Isabelle's "friendships" seemed transactional, her "charity work" a carefully curated PR exercise. There were whispers, too, if one dug deep enough into obscure gossip forums – of rivalries ruthlessly quashed, of social climbers mysteriously ostracized after crossing Isabelle. Nothing concrete, nothing provable, but enough to confirm Zoe's assessment: Isabelle was a predator in Chanel.
Her wardrobe choice for the confrontation was deliberate. Not the ostentatious designer gowns Alexander's team had provided for the gala, but a simple, impeccably tailored sheath dress in a muted dove grey. Elegant, understated, almost demure. It was designed to make her appear less of a threat, perhaps even a little out of her depth – the perfect camouflage for the strategic mind whirring beneath.
Alexander remained a distant, enigmatic presence. When Zoe had coolly informed him she'd be accepting Isabelle's invitation, his only response had been a noncommittal grunt and a warning: "Don't expect me to bail you out if you make a fool of yourself, Mrs. Sterling." The 'Mrs. Sterling' had been delivered with a faint, almost imperceptible emphasis, a reminder of the role she was still very much expected to play. Fine by her. She wasn't planning on making a fool of herself. She was planning on giving Isabelle Thorne a polite, well-mannered, and utterly infuriating surprise.
The Palm Court at The Plaza was exactly as Zoe had imagined it from countless movies and society pages: a symphony of soaring palm trees, gilded ceilings, and the hushed murmur of New York's elite partaking in the ritual of afternoon tea. It was breathtakingly beautiful, an arena of old-world elegance perfectly suited for the subtle social warfare about to unfold.
Isabelle Thorne was already seated at a prime table, a vision in a vibrant fuchsia dress that screamed for attention, a stark contrast to Zoe's muted grey. Olivia Vanderbilt, Isabelle's perpetually adoring and equally vacuous sidekick, sat beside her, looking like a particularly malicious Pekinese.
"Emily, darling!" Isabelle trilled as Zoe approached, her smile dazzlingly insincere. She rose, air-kissing Zoe on both cheeks, her expensive perfume momentarily suffocating. "You made it! I was so hoping you'd be free. We simply had to celebrate your wonderful news properly."
"Miss Thorne, Miss Vanderbilt," Zoe (as Emily) replied, her voice soft, her own smile carefully calibrated to convey polite deference with a hint of shy pleasure. "Thank you for inviting me. It's… very kind of you." Kind like a black widow inviting a fly into her parlor.
The tea service arrived – delicate porcelain, an array of anemic-looking finger sandwiches, and scones that Zoe suspected cost more than her monthly student loan repayment back in her Zoe Carter life.
"So, Emily," Isabelle began, once the waiter had discreetly retreated, her blue eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam. "You must tell us everything. How does it feel to be Mrs. Alexander Sterling? It all happened so… frightfully fast! One minute you're a struggling art student from… where was it again, dear? Iowa? Ohio?"
The casual dismissal of her (Original Emily's) origins was deliberate, designed to make her feel small, insignificant.
"Indiana, actually," Zoe corrected gently, taking a slow sip of her tea. "And it feels… rather wonderful, Miss Thorne. Alexander is an extraordinary man. I'm still pinching myself, to be honest." She offered a dreamy, slightly self-conscious smile.
Olivia Vanderbilt giggled. "Oh, I'm sure it's a dream come true for any girl. Alexander is just… divine. We've all known him for ages, of course. He's practically family." The implication was clear: We belong here. You don't.
"He certainly has a very… loyal circle of friends," Zoe agreed, her gaze innocently sweeping over Olivia, then settling back on Isabelle. "He's mentioned how much he values… longstanding connections." She paused, then added, as if an afterthought, "Though he did say he's also very excited about… new beginnings. Fresh perspectives." A tiny, almost invisible dart, aimed right at Isabelle's carefully constructed facade of being an indispensable part of Alexander's life.
Isabelle's smile didn't waver, but Zoe saw a flicker, a tightening around her eyes. "Indeed. Alexander has always had a… penchant for the novel. In his business dealings, at least." The emphasis on 'business dealings' was not lost on Zoe. She thinks I'm a business arrangement. Good. Let her underestimate me.
"He's a brilliant businessman," Zoe concurred readily. "I'm learning so much just by… being around him. He was explaining some of the intricacies of the Sterling Enterprises' latest merger just this morning over breakfast. Fascinating stuff. Though," she gave a little, self-deprecating laugh, "most of it went right over my head, I'm afraid. My mind is usually more attuned to an Gesso and armatures than arbitrage."
This was a carefully crafted piece of misdirection. She had been researching Sterling Enterprises, and while she was no financial wizard, Zoe Carter's marketing background had given her a decent grasp of corporate strategy. But playing the slightly dazed-but-adoring ingénue was crucial at this stage.
Isabelle seized on what she perceived as an admission of ignorance. "Oh, my dear, don't you worry your pretty little head about business. Alexander has plenty of people for that." Her eyes slid towards Olivia, who nodded eagerly. "Your role, I imagine, will be more about… well, being a charming hostess. Eventually. Once you've learned the ropes, of course. New York society can be rather… unforgiving… to newcomers who don't understand the nuances."
"I'm sure it can be," Zoe said, her voice still soft. "That's why I'm so grateful to have experienced women like yourself, Miss Thorne, to… to guide me. Alexander has often spoken of your… impeccable social grace." Another lie, but a useful one. Flattery, even insincere, could sometimes lower an opponent's guard. And it positioned Isabelle as a "mentor," a role that would be difficult for her to refuse publicly without looking petty.
Isabelle preened slightly, visibly pleased by the (false) compliment and the (false) deference. "Well, of course, dear. Anything I can do to help Alexander's… little fiancée… settle in." The emphasis on 'little' was like a pinprick.
The conversation continued in this vein, a delicate dance of veiled insults and feigned innocence. Isabelle would try to probe for weaknesses, to trip Emily up, to make her feel like an outsider. She brought up Alexander's "past flames" (all suitably blue-blooded and sophisticated, of course), the Sterling family's exacting standards, the sheer impossibility of someone like Emily truly fitting in.
Zoe, in turn, played her role to perfection. She was wide-eyed at the mention of Alexander's exes ("Oh my, he never told me! How… fascinating!"), suitably humbled by the grandeur of the Sterling name ("I know I have so much to learn!"), and consistently, unshakeably adoring of her new husband ("Alexander is just so supportive, he believes in me, even when I don't believe in myself!").
With every seemingly naive response, every artfully dodged question, Zoe felt Isabelle's frustration mounting. This wasn't the easy takedown Isabelle had envisioned. Emily Miller wasn't crumbling; she was deflecting every blow with a frustrating, almost infuriating sweetness.
Then, Isabelle played what she clearly thought was a trump card.
"You know, Emily," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur, "Alexander has a particular fondness for the opera. The new production of La Traviata at the Met is all anyone can talk about. We were all planning to go next week – a little tradition our families have. You do enjoy opera, don't you, dear? Or is it all a bit… much?"
Zoe knew from Manhattan's Ice King that Original Emily Miller had once made a disastrous fool of herself at an opera Alexander had dragged her to, confessing loudly during an intermission that she found it "boring and screechy." It had been a source of great humiliation for her, and a point of ridicule for Isabelle and her set for weeks. Isabelle was clearly trying to recreate that scenario, or at least unearth that particular inadequacy.
Zoe Carter, however, had a mother who was an opera fanatic. She'd been dragged to more productions of La Traviata than she could count.
A soft, reminiscent smile touched Emily Miller's lips. "Oh, La Traviata," she sighed, her eyes taking on a faraway look. "Violetta's aria in Act I, 'Sempre libera'… it's just heartbreakingly beautiful, isn't it? The way she tries to convince herself of a life of pleasure, even as her heart yearns for something more. Verdi was a genius at capturing that kind of… poignant desperation." She paused, then looked at Isabelle with wide, innocent eyes. "Do you have a favorite aria from it, Miss Thorne?"
Isabelle Thorne stared at her. For the first time that afternoon, her perfectly composed mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine, unadulterated shock. Olivia Vanderbilt looked equally stunned. They had clearly expected a blank stare, a stammered admission of ignorance. Not a reasonably articulate appreciation of one of opera's most famous works.
Gotcha, Zoe thought, a surge of pure, unholy glee coursing through her. That's for Original Emily.
Isabelle recovered quickly, but the damage was done. Her fuchsia-clad armor had been dented. "Why… yes, Emily," she managed, her voice a little strained. "It's… quite moving." She clearly had no favorite aria, or if she did, she wasn't about to admit it after being so thoroughly, yet so innocently, upstaged.
The rest of the tea party was a subdued affair. Isabelle made a few more half-hearted attempts to wrong-foot Emily, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. The "little mouse" had not only refused to be cornered, but had also, it seemed, sprouted a few unexpected teeth.
As Zoe (Emily) finally made her excuses, pleading a slight headache ("All this excitement, you know!"), Isabelle's farewell was noticeably cooler, her smile brittle.
"Do take care of yourself, Emily," she said, her eyes like chips of ice. "It would be such a shame if anything were to… happen… to Alexander's new bride before she's even properly settled in."
The threat was no longer veiled. It was out in the open.
"Thank you for your concern, Miss Thorne," Zoe replied, her own smile unwavering. "I assure you, I'm far more resilient than I look."
Walking out of The Palm Court, leaving Isabelle and Olivia amidst the delicate clinking of porcelain and the wreckage of their planned ambush, Zoe felt a wave of exhaustion hit her. But beneath it, there was a current of fierce, almost giddy triumph. She had faced the viper in her den and had not only survived but had also, she suspected, drawn first blood.
As the Sterling limousine whisked her away from The Plaza, her new, secure phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number – no, wait, it was the same unknown number that had sent the "little mouse" text.
This time, the message was even shorter.
"Clever. But don't get cocky. The game has levels you can't even imagine."
Zoe stared at it, then a slow smile spread across her face. Oh, Isabelle, she thought. You have no idea what a 'novel' experience you're in for.
The battle was just beginning. But for the first time, Zoe felt like she might actually have a fighting chance.