I followed her through the chilly, dank night, the steam rising from the streets visible in the light cast by nearby lanterns. She was rich, that was clear. She cut a dashing figure in her satin cloak, unmarred by the recent rain, and though I swore I wouldn’t reveal myself, I couldn’t help but whisper her name. “Melissa.” She turned. Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t know me; she didn’t trust. “I knew it was you,” I breathed. “My Cabbage Patch Kid, all grown up and possibly having murdered her second husband.” 

Then before my eyes, she changed. Morphed, like a beautiful chameleon making its own alibi, into the most frightening dance instructor I’ve ever had.

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“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “I just had a hickey today and InStyle didn’t know how to handle it. Now do a goddamn plie and do it right this time.”

[Photos and story: InStyle. And yes, fortunately, the menu referenced in the lede turns out to be about cocktails.]