Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)

Chapter 345

Thankfully, Sylvia spotted Bridget's reflection in the mirror just in time and dodged to the side.

But Bridget seized the opportunity to grab Sylvia's dress strap and gave it a hard yank.

Click, clatter...

A string of pearls went scattering all over the tiled floor.

With the strap broken, Sylvia's evening gown started slipping down. Flustered,

she clutched the front of her dress and stumbled backward.

Bridget cocked her chin with a smug little smirk, tossed the eyebrow razor into the trash, and suddenly put on an innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Oh, dear! Sylvia, you really should be more careful. How will you face anyone now? Maybe you'd better sit this one out and let Ms. Eloise down gently. Don't worry, I'll make sure to stand by Mr. Lennon's side for you."

She arched her eyebrows, gave a little wave, and strolled out of the restroom— high heels clicking with satisfaction.

Sylvia clung to her ruined dress, finally realizing Bridget hadn't meant to hurt her —just sabotage her dress, so she'd be too embarrassed to show her face at the gala.

No time to panic, Sylvia knelt and tried to scoop up the pearls, hoping she could fix it. But this was a historic building-hell, even the restroom floors were the original old stone. The pearls had rolled off into the cracks and disappeared.

She managed to gather a measly handful-not nearly enough to repair even one strap.

Then footsteps echoed in the corridor. Sylvia had to clutch her dress and slip out quickly.

find an empty room, somewhere she could try to salvage her

no way she was letting Bridget steal her moment—she'd waited too long for

corner and collided straight into a little boy-six or seven years old-who

sprawled

to help him up. "Oh

event- looked up

Sylvia blinked, momentarily speechless.

arms full of fabric

a

exhausted, but

so sorry, miss," she apologized. "Kids, you

her head.

Are

let me pay for

bill, just in

all

her bundle down to check her son for bumps and

your dad's still off work and you're going to give me a heart attack," she scolded, brushing dirt off

son, so she didn't think much

was carrying. The colors were gorgeous-rich, vibrant, even in

"Ma'am, is this...?"

just some local hand-dyed fabric. The museum director lets us sell it as souvenirs for the gift shop. Help us make some extra cash," the woman explained, still fussing over