Dylan unlocked her phone, her thumb tracing the cracked screen protector. She bypassed the standard carrier network, routing her connection through a proxy server in Zurich.
She opened a chat app. The contact name was simply: C. Peters.
She typed: My ride mentions a party at your place tonight.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Dylan! You're back?
A second message followed immediately. I saw the reservation. 'Clemons Party of 6'. I assumed it was for you. I'll fix it.
Dylan frowned. Fix what?
They booked the Standard Room. Insulting. I upgraded them to the Penthouse Suite. Only the best for my partner. Everything is comped. Champagne, caviar, the works.
Dylan closed her eyes. A headache began to throb behind her temples. Chet meant well. He always did. He thought the Clemons family actually cared about her. He thought he was treating her family.
He had no idea he was feeding the parasites.
She started to type: They hate me, Chet. Cancel it.
Her thumb hovered over the send button. She thought of Firman. Her grandfather. He would be there. He loved luxury, loved feeling important. If Chet cancelled the reservation now, there would be a scene. Glyn would scream. Firman would get stressed. His heart couldn't take the stress.
She backspaced.
Don't make a fuss. Just let it be.
Done, Chet replied. VIP treatment engaged. Welcome home, Boss.
Dylan sighed, rubbing her temples. The irony was a bitter pill. Her family was about to enjoy a ten-thousand-dollar night on her dime, celebrating a status they didn't have, all while treating her like a leper.
The Bentley slowed, turning off the main road. But instead of the hotel, it pulled up to the Clemons Estate.
The house was a monstrosity of new money architecture-too many columns, too much gold leaf, trying desperately to look like old aristocracy.
The driveway was empty. No welcome committee.
Mike stopped the car and popped the trunk. "Get out."
Dylan sat still for a second. "Where is everyone?"
"They're already at the hotel," Mike said, smirking. "They went ahead in the limo. You gotta find your own way. I'm off the clock."
He dumped her bag onto the asphalt driveway. "Don't scratch the paint getting your junk out."
Mike hit the gas, the Bentley peeling away, leaving her standing alone in the vast, empty driveway.
Dylan picked up her bag. It felt heavier now. She didn't look at the house. It wasn't a home. It was a museum of bad taste and worse memories.
She pulled out her phone and opened the Uber app. Uber Black.
While she waited, she switched apps to the security feed of The Sanctuary.
On her screen, she saw the lobby of the club. Crystal chandeliers, velvet ropes. And there they were. The Clemons family.
Glyn was strutting. Belle was preening in a silver dress that cost more than a car. Manager Franks-a weasel of a man-was bowing low to them.
"Right this way, Mr. Clemons," she could almost hear him say.
Dylan watched Belle snap a selfie, soaking up the adoration that was contractually obligated for the owner, not the owner's abusive cousin.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Dylan whispered to the screen.
