Imogene's apartment was a closet with a window. It smelled of boiled cabbage from the neighbor's unit and damp plaster. She sat on her mattress, her phone vibrating incessantly against her leg.
Tiffany was live-tweeting her fantasy life.
Ping.
A photo. Tiffany's manicured hand resting on the leather seat of a car.
Caption: Riding in style. Cervantes Group knows how to treat a girl.
Imogene frowned. She zoomed in on the photo. The leather was worn. It wasn't a Maybach. It was a Lincoln Town Car-the standard car service the club used for VIP guests. Tiffany was lying.
Ping.
Imogene typed: Be careful, Tiff. These people aren't playing games.
Tiffany replied: Don't be jealous, Immy. This is my shot.
The next day, Tiffany didn't show up for her shift.
At noon, Imogene's phone buzzed again.
It was a photo sent directly to her. It showed a room. A massive, sun-drenched living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. In the corner, a twisted metal sculpture stood upright.
Imogene stopped breathing. It was the penthouse.
Tiffany's text: He invited me over. Said the place was too big for one person.
Imogene stared at the image. How? How did she get in?
The truth was mundane. Tiffany, emboldened, had called Marcus's office, playing the part of the concerned savior. She claimed she'd left a "sentimental" earring in the suite during the "incident." Marcus, needing to maintain the fragile cover story, had reluctantly authorized a one-time, ten-minute escorted entry for her to "retrieve" it. She'd used seven of those minutes to snap photos before being politely removed by security.
But Imogene didn't know that.
She felt a sharp, acidic sting in her chest. Jealousy? No. It was betrayal. That room was where she had saved him. That room was where he had held her.
"He chose her," Imogene whispered.
It made sense. Tiffany was beautiful. She was vibrant. She wasn't broken. Maybe Kenan remembered the night through a haze and his mind filled in the blanks with Tiffany's face.
Imogene forced herself to type back. Good luck.
She put the phone down. She had to let it go. If Tiffany was the "chosen one," then Imogene was safe. No one would come looking for the girl in the hoodie.
Meanwhile, Tiffany lay on her bed in her cramped Queens apartment, posting the photos to Instagram. She tagged them vaguely. NewBeginnings K.
Within hours, the gossip blogs picked it up. Mystery Brunette Linked to Tech Mogul Kenan Cervantes?
At Cervantes HQ, the PR algorithm flagged the posts.
"Sir," Marcus said, entering Kenan's office. "There are rumors. The girl... Tiffany. She's posting implications."
Kenan didn't look up from his code. "Is she showing my face?"
"No. Just the apartment."
"Let her," Kenan said. "It distracts the press from the health rumors. A playboy narrative is better than a dying CEO narrative."
"Understood."
Back at the club, the breakroom was buzzing.
"Did you see?" Sophie whispered. "Tiffany is practically living with him!"
"She's so lucky," another girl sighed.
Imogene wiped down the table, her movements mechanical.
"Imogene," Sophie called out. "You think she'll get us invited to the wedding?"
Imogene looked up. Her eyes were dull behind her glasses. "I hope so."
She walked out, feeling the weight of the lie pressing down on her. She was safe, yes. But she had never felt more alone. The world was celebrating a fake fairytale, while the real princess was scrubbing floors.
