Chapter 5 Ballroom Showdown
Amelia POV
Her voice was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, and then she turned to Claire with fake sympathy. "You, sweetie, are more than welcome to come inside and meet everyone."
I glanced down at my dress, then at Claire's similar outfit. Grace was singling me out specifically.
Claire stepped closer to me. "Thanks, but I'll stay with my friend."
Grace's smile turned predatory. "Well, if that's your choice..." She turned toward the ballroom and called out, "Damien! Over here!"
A large, muscular guy emerged from the party, looking eager to please. Grace pointed at us with a theatrical sigh. "These two are causing problems. Make sure they don't get inside."
The guy nodded enthusiastically, clearly thrilled to be given a task by the great Grace.
Grace shot me one last smug look before gliding back into the ballroom with her entourage.
I looked at the muscle-bound doorman and smiled. Did she really think this overgrown gym rat could stop me?
Without hesitation, I walked straight toward the entrance.
Damien blocked my path with his considerable bulk. "Sorry, ladies. Boss's orders."
"I understand you're just following instructions," I said pleasantly, ignoring his athletic build completely. "But I really do need to get inside."
He crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Not happening. Find somewhere else to party."
"Well, if you insist on being difficult..."
I moved with fluid precision—a simple grand battement forward, my leg sweeping upward to catch him squarely in the solar plexus. As he doubled over, gasping, I spun into a graceful pirouette, my elbow connecting with the back of his neck during the turn. He crumpled to the ground like a dropped sack of cement.
The entire sequence took maybe three seconds and looked more like a choreographed dance than a fight.
"Holy shit!" Claire stared at me with wide eyes. "What the hell was that? Do they teach those moves in Russian ballet schools? That was incredible!"
I smoothed down my dress and stepped delicately over Damien's prone form. "Growing up in Russia, these are essential survival skills. You never know when they might come in handy."
Claire shook her head in amazement as we walked through the entrance. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
Grace stood near the center of the room, holding court with her collection of admirers.
Her face went through an amusing progression of emotions when she spotted us entering—surprise, anger, and then what I could only describe as seething rage. She was still processing our presence when Damien came stumbling through the entrance behind us, looking disheveled and humiliated.
He hurried over to Grace's side, whispering urgently in her ear while gesturing toward me. Grace's expression darkened further with each word. She snapped something back at him—I couldn't hear what, but the dismissive wave of her hand was clear enough. Damien slunk away from the group.
Grace turned back toward me, and for just a moment, her mask slipped completely. The look she gave me was pure, undiluted hatred. But then she caught herself, replacing it with a sickeningly sweet smile before turning away to continue her conversations with the freshmen.
Smart girl. Finally learning some self-preservation.
"Come on," I murmured to Claire. "Let's keep an eye on our hostess."
We positioned ourselves close enough to observe Grace's interactions but far enough to avoid immediate confrontation. I watched her touch arms, laugh at unfunny jokes, and make each new student feel specially chosen. It was a masterclass in manipulation.
But after about an hour of surveillance, I began noticing something else entirely. Other students were staring at me—not with curiosity, but with something that looked suspiciously like fear or disgust.
Claire noticed, too. "Amelia," she said quietly, "is it just me, or does everyone here look like they want to murder you?"
Before I could respond, a tall guy with perfectly styled hair approached us. He looked me up and down with obvious disdain.
"I have to admit, you're a lot prettier than I expected," he said with a condescending smirk. "But I guess violence and mental instability can hide behind a pretty face."
I felt my muscles tense automatically. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, already losing interest in the conversation. "Just saying, you might want to work on that anger management problem." He walked away before I could respond.
I started to follow him—my first instinct was to grab him by the throat and encourage him to explain exactly what he thought he knew about me. But the weight of all those watching eyes stopped me. Too many witnesses. Unlike the situation with Damien at the entrance, this would be public and recorded on dozens of phones.
"Let me go find out what's going on," Claire said, squeezing my arm.
She disappeared into the crowd while I found a relatively quiet corner to observe from. The stares continued, along with the whispers.
Claire returned fifteen minutes later, her face grim. "Okay, I know what's happening, and you're not going to like it."
"Tell me."
"Grace has been working the room all night, telling everyone your life story. According to her version, you're the adopted daughter of the Coltman family—they took you in out of charity when you were a poor, orphaned child. The Coltmans supposedly treated you like their own daughter, giving you everything."
I stayed silent.
"Three years ago, you apparently had some kind of psychotic break. Out of jealousy toward Grace, you violently attacked her and caused serious injuries. The family had you committed to a psychiatric institution for treatment. You were released a few days ago, but clearly the therapy didn't work, because you immediately went home and beat up Grace again. Tonight, you assaulted the doorman just to force your way into this party."
I felt a cold rage building in my chest. Grace had crafted the perfect narrative, painting me as the villain and herself as the victim.
"So now everyone thinks I'm a violent nutcase who attacks her own family," I said flatly.
"Pretty much, yeah." Claire studied my face carefully. "But I have to ask—is any of it true? Are you actually part of the Coltman family?"
I could lie, deflect, or give her a partial truth. Instead, I found myself saying: "Grace is lying. I'm actually a Coltman by birth—not adopted. But their fortune means nothing to me. I ditched my last name and walked away three years ago, sick of their games. I only returned to start college. And no, I've never been in any mental health facility."
Claire nodded decisively. "I believe you. So what do you want to do about this?"
"You'd stand by me? Even though you barely know me?"
"My family's been in politics for three generations," Claire said with a slight smile. "I learned how to spot the real villains early. Plus, if we're going to be roommates, I'd rather have someone with your... skill set on my side than against me."
I noticed the way she carried herself. There was definitely more to her than met the eye.
"All right then," I said, straightening my shoulders. "I think it's time Grace and I had a direct conversation."
I walked straight across the ballroom floor, cutting through the clusters of chattering students until I reached the center of the room, where Grace was. The conversations around us gradually died as people realized something was about to happen.
"Grace," I said loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. "We need to talk."
Grace turned around, her face a mask of innocent confusion. "Amelia! I was just telling everyone how wonderful it is that you're here. I hope you're feeling better after your... recent difficulties."
"Actually, I want to discuss those recent difficulties," I said with a cold smile. "Specifically, why you've been spreading lies about my personal history."
The color drained from Grace's face. She clearly hadn't expected me to confront her so directly, and definitely not in front of her carefully cultivated audience.
"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered. "I was just sharing the truth about our family situation—"
"The truth?" I let out a harsh laugh that made several people step backward. "Well, if we're sharing truths tonight, I have some fascinating stories about you, Grace. And unlike your little fairy tales, I can actually provide evidence to back up my claims."
I took a step closer, lowering my voice just enough that she had to strain to hear me. "Would you like me to tell everyone the real truth about who you are? Because I promise you, it's much more interesting than your version."
Grace's eyes went wide with panic. "Amelia, please, I don't know what you think you—"
I started to speak loudly. "Grace is actually the fake..."