The next morning, Ina sat by her bed in the penthouse.She had come home late from the gala, still shaking from Buren’s assault in the restroom, and had barely slept.
She stared at her phone. Her hands shook violently. The group chats were exploding. The socialites had spread the story of her bathroom gossip. But that wasn’t all. Sometime after midnight, an anonymous account had posted a grainy video clip on a gossip forum—footage taken from a fire escape across the street from The Plaza. It showed a disheveled woman in an oversized white shirt climbing down the rusted iron ladder. The face was blurry, but the timestamp and location were unmistakable. Within hours, the video had gone viral, and someone had identified the woman as Ina Holman. The rumors were vicious. They called her a slut, a liar, a disgrace.
She had thought Buren’s decoy had worked. But Faron’s private investigator—the one who had been with him at the hotel door—must have kept filming from a different angle, or perhaps someone else had sold the footage. Either way, the carefully constructed lie had crumbled. The Plaza scandal was now public.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her father: Get to the Fifth Avenue penthouse. Now.
She knew better than to argue. She threw on a coat and took a cab to the family apartment.
The heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse bedroom were suddenly kicked open. The wood slammed against the wall with a gunshot crack.
Her father, Reginald, stormed into the room. His face was purple with rage. He held a rolled-up copy of the New York Post.
He swung his arm and smashed the newspaper directly into Ina's face.
The paper unrolled, revealing the bold front-page headline: HOLMAN HEIRESS CAUGHT IN PLAZA SCANDAL.
"You stupid, worthless girl!" Reginald roared, spit flying from his lips. "You have made us a laughingstock! The investors are pulling out!"
Her brother, Jett, leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms and smiled cruelly. "Faron's father called ten minutes ago. The Levine family is officially canceling the proposed alliance. They refuse to merge with a whore."
Ina stood up. "Father, please. It is not what it looks like. I was set up!"
Reginald stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face.
The impact snapped Ina's head to the side. A burning red handprint instantly raised on her pale cheek. A high-pitched ringing filled her left ear.
"Shut up!" Reginald screamed. "You have violated the morality clause of the family trust. I have frozen all your accounts. You have one hour to pack your bags and get out of my building. You are no longer a Holman."
Ina held her burning cheek. She looked at her father's cold eyes and her brother's smug smile. The tears spilled over her lashes, but she did not beg.
She walked out of the penthouse without a word. She took a cab back to her Tribeca apartment, but when she tried the key, it wouldn’t turn. A notice was taped to the door: Property seized pending bankruptcy proceedings. All tenants vacate immediately. Her father hadn’t just frozen her accounts—he had used his remaining influence to have her apartment repossessed under the family trust’s fine print.
She had no money, no home she could safely return to, and nowhere to go. Faron would be looking for her. Buren would be watching. The only place she could think of—the one place no one would expect her to run—was her late grandfather’s abandoned estate in the Hamptons.
She dragged her single suitcase to the subway, then to a long-distance bus. It was a humiliating, grueling journey.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Clementine.
Ina answered it. "Why did you do it, Clementine?" Ina croaked, her voice broken. "Why did you set me up to be drugged?"
Clementine burst into loud, hysterical sobs. "Ina, I swear to God I didn't! I am a victim too!"
Ina frowned. "What are you talking about?"
“I couldn’t sleep after what happened,” Clementine wailed. “I went to find the suitor my family had set me up with—the one you were supposed to meet. At first, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about. He said he never agreed to any date. That was strange enough, but then a friend of mine saw him getting into a car with Davonta Snider—Faron’s driver. I got suspicious, Ina. So I hired a private investigator the very next morning to track Faron's movements.”
Ina’s breath hitched. The cold wind whipping down the street seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. Faron? Why would Clementine track Faron?
“Faron is gay, Ina!” Clementine’s voice dropped into a horrified whisper. “He and Davonta Snider have been together for years. Faron only strung you along to hide his sexuality from his conservative father. Davonta was the one who drugged you at the bar. He orchestrated the whole thing so Faron could catch you in a compromising position. And that suitor my family chose? He was a decoy—paid to claim ignorance and disappear. It was all Faron’s plan from the start.”
The phone slipped slightly in Ina's grip. Her mind raced, violently piecing together the fragmented memories. Faron's fake concern. The way he always avoided intimacy.
"They wanted to destroy your reputation and blame you entirely," Clementine sobbed, "so Faron could justify cutting off your family and keep his inheritance without ever having to marry you!"
The crushing despair vanished. It was replaced by a cold, black, consuming rage.
She dropped to a crouch next to a filthy street trash can. She buried her face in her hands and let out one loud, agonizing scream of betrayal.
Then, she stood up. She wiped her face aggressively. All the softness in her eyes was gone. She grabbed her suitcase handle. She was going to destroy Faron Levine.
