The Fallen Ugly Girl: Her Epic Comeback

The emergency room smelled of bleach and despair. Emely ran through the automatic doors, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, her hair a frizzy mess.

She found her mother in the waiting area, huddled in a plastic chair, looking small and gray.

"Mom!"

Martha looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. "He collapsed. They said it's acute heart failure. He needs a bypass. Immediately."

"Okay," Emely said, her heart hammering. "Okay, do it. Tell them to do it."

Martha shook her head, tears spilling over. "They won't. The insurance... it was tied to the company accounts. It's been frozen. All of it."

Emely marched to the billing desk. The woman behind the computer didn't even look up.

"Name?"

"Arthur Cohen. He needs surgery."

"We need a payment method on file. The previous card was declined."

Emely pulled out her wallet. She slapped down her Visa. Declined. Her MasterCard. Declined. Her Amex. Declined.

The receptionist looked at her with pity that felt worse than scorn. "Miss Cohen, without a deposit, we can only stabilize him. We can't operate."

"How much?" Emely asked, her voice trembling.

"The initial deposit for the surgical team is two hundred thousand dollars."

Emely felt a wave of dizziness. "Two hundred thousand..."

"And that's just to book the OR," the woman added softly, not unkindly. "The total procedure, given his complex condition, will likely be closer to five million."

Emely walked back to her mother, her legs feeling like lead. She sat down and took Martha's hand. It was cold.

"We have nothing, Em," Martha whispered. "The house is foreclosed. The accounts are seized. We're going to be on the street."

Emely looked through the glass doors of the ICU. She could see her father's pale face, the tube down his throat. The machine beeped steadily, a countdown clock on his life.

She felt a weight against her chest. Not the pressure of grief, but the physical weight of the obsidian ring tucked into her bra.

If you're ever desperate.

She stood up. "I'll get the money."

"How?" Martha cried. "Kody?"

"No," Emely said, her voice turning hard. "Someone who owes me."

She walked out of the hospital and found a discarded cigarette butt on the ground near the smoking area. She picked it up, lit it with a stray lighter she found in her pocket, and took a drag. She coughed as the harsh smoke burned her lungs, but it steadied her hands.

She dialed Zoe.

"Em! Oh my god, I saw the video online. Did you really throw the necklace?" Zoe's voice was frantic.

"Where is Christ Collins?" Emely asked.

Silence. Then, "Christ? Why?"

"Just tell me, Zoe."

"Zack is tracking him. He's in the Hamptons. A private estate party. Tonight."

"I need a ride," Emely said. "And I need a dress."

"Emely, you can't go there. The Collins family... they aren't normal. There are rumors. Dark rumors."

"My dad is dying, Zoe. I don't care if Christ Collins is the devil himself. I'm going to collect."

The apartment looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes were strewn everywhere-relics of a life when Emely was a size four. She held up a black cocktail dress, the fabric mocking her. It wouldn't even fit over one of her thighs now.

She threw it at the mirror, shattering a bottle of perfume.

The door opened and Zoe rushed in, carrying two garment bags. Zack, her brother, trailed behind, looking nervous.

"I raided my cousin's closet," Zoe said, breathless. "She's... bigger. Plus size."

Emely didn't flinch at the term anymore. She stripped off her wet clothes, standing in her underwear. Her body was pale, soft, covered in stretch marks that looked like lightning strikes.

Zoe helped her into a black velvet gown. It was tight, compressing her ribs, but the fabric had give. It hugged her curves, smoothing the rolls, pushing her breasts up.

"Sit," Zoe commanded, opening a makeup kit.

As Zoe applied foundation, she paused. "Em... your skin feels... weird. It has this strange sheen to it. And you feel hot. Are you running a fever?"

"No. It's just stress," Emely muttered, though she felt it too-a low-level fever that hummed beneath her skin, making her sweat despite the drafty room.

She shoved her feet into a pair of red-bottomed heels Zoe had brought. The pain was immediate, sharp and blinding, cramming her swollen toes into the narrow box. As she looked around for a clutch, a wave of panic hit her. All her designer bags had been sold or were locked away in the foreclosed house.

"I don't have a bag," she said, her voice tight.

Zoe looked around frantically. "Shit. Okay, uh..." She darted to a dusty box in the corner and pulled out a simple, worn black clutch. "This was from... prom? It'll have to do."

Emely took the old bag, its cheap pleather cool against her heated skin.

Zack handed her a piece of paper with a QR code. "This is a clone of a VIP pass. It might work. It might not. If it doesn't, run."

Emely took it. She reached into her bra and pulled out the ring, threading it onto a gold chain around her neck. She let it drop into the deep V of her cleavage, hidden but accessible.

The ride to the Hamptons was silent. Zack's beat-up van rattled and shook, a stark contrast to the Bentleys and Ferraris gliding down the highway.

As they neared the coast, Emely felt a pull. A physical tug in her gut, like a magnet dragging iron filings. Her blood felt carbonated, fizzing in her veins.

"Stop here," she told Zack a quarter-mile from the gate.

"You sure?" Zack asked. "It's a long walk in those heels."

"I need the air."

Emely stepped out. The ocean breeze hit her, carrying the scent of salt and... something else. Ozone. Power.

She looked up at the massive iron gates of the Collins estate. The family crest was wrought in the metal: A black serpent devouring the sun.

She took a breath, the corset of her dress digging into her waist, and began to walk. Every step was agony. Every step was necessary.