Chapter 4: “The Ball, The Gowns, The Blow”
The night of the Palm Beach Beach Ball unfolded like a perfectly creased invitation—exquisite, deliberate, and heavy with expectation.
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Outside The Breakers, a valet dropped jaws as a line of Rolls-Royces and one powder-blue Studebaker glided in. Inside, the ballroom shimmered like the inside of a champagne flute—lit chandeliers, candlelight flickering in mirrored walls, and enough floral arrangements to bankrupt a Dutch tulip farm.
Margaret Jewell Holt Evans stood at the top of the grand staircase in dove-gray silk, pearls trailing down her spine like an exclamation point. She was, as ever, composed. But those who knew her saw the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.
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The room was full.
Full of her people.
And not a yacht party in sight.
At precisely 9:15, the string quartet ceased. Guests murmured. Then, the lights dimmed. The crowd turned.
From the far end of the ballroom, soft spotlights lit a makeshift runway—gleaming, glossy, flanked with palms and gilded Chiavari chairs. A hush swept the room.
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“Ladies and gentlemen,” came a voice over the speakers, “Margaret Jewell Holt Evans invites you to witness a presentation by the house of Claude DeMarchand.”
Gasps.
That Claude DeMarchand.
And then the music swelled. A model appeared—tall, statuesque, in a fitted jacquard gown the color of sunshine, with sculpted shoulders and a nipped waist that screamed old-world elegance and modern power. The crowd collectively forgot to sip.
More followed: gowns in pink and sky blue, in brocade and intricate floral. Every step down the runway was a reminder that fashion wasn’t just fabric—it was fortress.
Each look was inspired by Southern grandeur and Holt family heirlooms—Margaret had even loaned Cassini a selection of family lace and 19th-century dinner jackets from Warthen for reference.
The final model descended in a vibrant pink gown. She didn’t walk. She arrived.
The applause was thunderous. Cameras flashed. A new social code was printed that night, stitched right into the seams of those gowns.
Meanwhile: Calista’s Sinking Ship
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On her yacht, Calista Beauregard DeVere twirled a cocktail pick between her manicured fingers, smiling too tightly as a guest whispered into her ear: “Did you hear? Margaret brought Cassini. Jacquard. The whole ballroom lost its mind.”
Her smile cracked. Just slightly.
“Jacquard?” she repeated, as if it were a contagious disease. “How quaint. Very… upholstery-core.”
But later, as the champagne ran flat and her DJ missed his cue for the third time, Calista knew the truth:
Margaret hadn’t just outplayed her.
She had rewritten the game.
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