The Thorne Heiress Unveiling Shadow novel Chapter 23

The aftermath of Diana Vreeland's pronouncement was not an explosion, but a series of quiet, deadly clicks. The sound of dozens of phones being raised, of cameras discreetly recording, of fingers flying across screens. The high society of New York was a pack of well-dressed wolves, and they had just been thrown a piece of fresh, bleeding meat.

Before Aria could even process what had happened, the scene was already going viral. A video, shot by the socialite who had smirked at Evelyn's earlier comment, was the first to hit Instagram. It was shaky, but the audio was crystal clear: Diana Vreeland's voice, coolly dissecting Aria's dress as a "well-made superfake."

The caption was simple and brutal: "The Queen of Vogue has spoken. So much for 'one-of-a-kind.' 😬 #FoundationBall #SuttonSuperfake"

The hashtag was born. #SuttonSuperfake.

Within minutes, it was trending on Twitter. The initial video was shared, reposted, and re-edited with crying-laughing emojis. Memes began to appear: a picture of Aria's dress next to a rhinestone-covered phone case with the caption "Who wore it better?" Another showed a Barbie doll in a glittery outfit with the text "Aria Sutton's next red carpet look." A particularly vicious one photoshopped Aria's face onto a Canal Street vendor selling knockoff handbags. The internet, in its collective, anonymous cruelty, showed no mercy.

All of Aria's carefully curated pre-ball posts, the ones that had garnered so much praise just an hour earlier, were now flooded with a tidal wave of mockery.

Aria stood paralyzed in the middle of the grand hall, her phone buzzing in her clutch like an angry hornet. She could feel the stares, hear the muffled laughter behind raised hands. Her friends, Tiffany and Brittany, had vanished, melting back into the crowd as if they had never known her. She sent them a frantic text: "Where are you guys?!?" The message was seen, but there was no reply. They were rats, and the ship was sinking.

Her face, which had been artfully made up to look flushed and radiant, was now a ghastly, chalky white. The beautiful "Starlight Gown" felt heavy, a shroud of shame. The cameras that had once adored her now felt like weapons, their flashes like gunshots. Her grand return, her moment of triumph, had turned into her worst nightmare. She was, once again, the laughingstock of New York City, and this time, it was a thousand times worse. She was a trending topic, a living meme, a cautionary tale whispered over champagne. She finally looked for her parents, needing an escape, only to see her mother, Caroline, engaged in a hushed, frantic argument with her father, Richard, whose face was turning a dangerous shade of purple. They weren't coming to save her; they were too busy trying to save themselves.