It was a perfect night. London’s normal damp and chill atmosphere had given way to a comfortable and pleasant evening. Even the stars were out—both the real ones and the celebrity version. Out in front of the Baroness’s warehouse, a crowd of people had begun to gather, eager to see the reveal of the Baroness’s latest collection. Rumors had been flying: The collection was going to be magnificent . . . her best yet. The collection was going to be terrible . . . outdated and rushed because of Cruella.

The Baroness ignored all the whispers. She knew that her collection was stellar. And the signature dress was going to blow away all the naysayers. Now she just needed to get the collection out there.

Standing at the top of the stairs to her office, the Baroness watched as her minions rushed about, trying to get everything in its place before the guests would be allowed in. The vault had been moved down to the main floor of the warehouse and was now hidden behind a curtain, waiting for the moment its precious contents would be revealed. Per her orders, the designers’ workroom had been transformed. The desks had been moved out and the boards taken down. In their place, lights had been hung, and where the desks had been now stood chairs that surrounded a long runway. It looked industrial and chic at the same time. The Baroness was pleased—or as pleased as she ever allowed herself to be. Even from inside, the Baroness sensed that the crowd was getting bigger and more restless. By now the VIP guests would be arriving. She would make them wait. It was a good reminder to them that she was in charge.

Beside her, John’s eyes scanned the room. The valet’s face was, as usual, expressionless. To him, every worker below was a potential security risk or individual who might bother his boss. Typically, the Baroness liked his thoroughness, but right now she didn’t care about all those workers. She cared about one.

“When ‘Estella’ arrives, escort her to my office and hold her there,” she ordered. She looked suspiciously at him. “Can I trust you this time?”

He didn’t bother to respond to the question. Instead, he told her again what he had been stating all day: Estella was not Cruella. There was no way she was capable of pulling off the Cruella stunts.

“Do I pay you for your opinion or obedience?” the Baroness said when he was done.

John opened his mouth and then thought better of it. He nodded. “I’ll see it’s done,” he said.

The Baroness watched him walk down the stairs. How dare he question her? She had been putting the pieces together for days now. Matching moments and connecting the evidence. Cruella could be none other than Estella. It all made sense. She had studied Cruella’s dresses and seen the same pattern in some of Estella’s work. And she had never asked for Estella’s references. She had just plucked her from that silly window display and plopped a dream job in her lap. She had no idea where the girl came from. Estella could easily have the evil mind needed to mess with her in such a way. But John could think whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter as long as the Baroness got this show off without a hitch.

Hearing her name, she saw Jeffrey signaling to her from the bottom of the stairs. She sighed. Could these people do anything on their own? She made her way down toward her assistant and stopped in front of him. The man was visibly shaking, and his face was ghostly white.

“Speak!” she commanded.

But Jeffrey couldn’t speak. He could just shake as he pointed to the curtain behind him. Sweeping past him, the Baroness brushed the curtain aside just enough to let her slip through. She didn’t want the audience to see anything before it was time. And when she saw what was on the other side, she was glad for the precaution. A technician stood in front of the vault. He was fiddling with the control panel, which was flashing funny signs.

Following her in, Jeffrey finally found his voice. “There’s something wrong with the lock, Your Ladyship,” he said.

The Baroness bit back a scream of frustration. She wasn’t an idiot! She could see there was something wrong. The bigger issue wasn’t what, but why? Why was it not working? The guests were arriving, and the show was due to start in less than an hour. “I don’t care what you have to do, get it open!”

But an hour later, the vault was still unopened, and the crowd was growing restless. A who’s who of the most important people in the fashion industry shifted on their uncomfortable chairs. They had come for a show, but so far, all they had seen was an empty runway. A few daring reporters jotted down observations and asked for quotes.

Peeking out from behind the curtain, the Baroness frowned. She didn’t know the reporters and didn’t have control of what people were saying. She needed to get this show going—now! Turning back to the technician, she pushed him aside. It was always up to her to get the job done. She reached down and got the blowtorch she had asked John to find. Handing it to the head of security, she gave him a nod and he fired it up. On the other side of the curtain, the guests gasped as they saw a bright red light appear.

The flame slowly cut through the hinges. The Baroness didn’t take her eyes off the door as, inch by inch, the flame did its work. Finally, with a loud groan, the hinge broke and the door fell to the ground. They were in!

The Baroness sighed with relief as she stepped in front of the now open vault. But the feeling only lasted a moment. She was horrified when she saw, instead of dresses, a cloud of moths swarm out in a tornado of wings. As the people around her began to wave their hands and shriek, the Baroness’s eyes flashed fire far hotter than any blowtorch could. Ignoring the workers and the moths, she stared inside the depths of the vault.

Her dresses, each and every one, were destroyed. Holes had been eaten into every piece of fabric, every sleeve, every bodice, every train. It was a complete and utter disaster. As her rage built, the Baroness looked at the signature gown. Placed in the middle of all the others, it was still beautiful, but there was something different. It no longer seemed to glow and shine. Watching, she saw one of the beads begin to shake. A moment later, it broke open and a moth crawled out.

Fury filled the Baroness. The beads weren’t beads at all! They had been cocoons for moths—hundreds and hundreds of cocoons. Neatly sewn onto the dress by that wretched Estella, they had been ticking time bombs. And now they had exploded and wreaked their havoc.

As the moths made their way out further into the warehouse, the guests began to scream. Chairs screeched as people rushed to get away from the infestation. Within moments, the warehouse was empty.

The Baroness’s show was over before it could even begin.

The Baroness was sure she could not get any madder. Seeing her collection ruined made her blood hiss.

And then she stepped foot outside the warehouse.

Her blood went from steaming to boiling.

As she made her way onto the street, she saw the last of her guests fleeing her show. Like the moths they were running from, they seemed drawn to the lights that were pulsating and glowing from inside Regent’s Park. The Baroness frowned. What was going on?

Heading upstairs toward the large balcony outside her office, the Baroness looked out at the park. A huge crowd had formed around the tiered fountain. All eyes were glued to the show happening in front of them—a fantastic, loud and raucous, bright and bold punk rock pop-up fashion show. Models strutted around the fountain, decked out in street-hip clothing that was the exact opposite of the classic haute couture pieces of the Baroness’s collection.

The crowd cheered, getting louder with the reveal of each over-the-top outfit. As the Baroness scanned the faces gathered, her rage built. These were her guests, the elite of the fashion world, who were supposed to be attending her show. Instead, they were standing out in the chilly night air, watching this neon nightmare—and enjoying it. Her eyes kept roaming, and she spotted Anita Darling snapping photographs beside a pair of rough-and-tumble boys. Probably homeless, the Baroness thought coldly.

“It’s got a good beat.”

Her head whipped to the right. John had come and was standing next to her, his eyes on the crowd in the park. She flashed him a furious look. She was really going to think long and hard about firing him. He should know better than to say anything positive about the debacle unfolding in front of her.

Just as she opened her mouth to snap at him, a figure appeared at the end of the makeshift runway. A beam of light illuminated the figure as she strode down the long walkway and, upon reaching the end, spun first left, then right. The light continued to follow, just close enough to give glimpses of the outfit but not close enough to reveal a face. The figure twirled and strutted to the eager crowd and, finally, leaned into a bow. When she arose, the light fell on her face. The Baroness gasped. It was Cruella! And she was wearing a black-and-white spotted fur coat—a coat that looked like it was made out of Dalmatian! As the crowd gasped and cheered, Cruella lifted her arm, soaking in the praise.

“This is the future!” she shouted. As her words echoed over the park, in the distance was the familiar wail of police sirens.

Instantly, one of the boys who appeared homeless flipped a switch and the lights went down. A moment later, the music went off. The models, the crowd, and Cruella scattered, disappearing into the darkness. The two homeless boys hesitated, looking around as if to make sure nothing was left behind. The Baroness watched the pair closely. Perhaps there was more to those boys than she had thought.

“She killed my dogs . . .” the Baroness whispered. Even with the lights off, the image of Cruella in the Dalmatian coat was seared in her brain. The rebel had gone too far. It was one thing to mess with her; it was an entirely different thing to mess with her dogs.

The Baroness was done with the little battles. Cruella wanted a fight? She was going to get a war. Turning to John, she ordered him to follow the boys. She had a feeling that where they went, Cruella might follow.