Bankrupt

Eleonora Compton adjusted the rearview mirror, her fingers lingering on the cold plastic. Her reflection stared back-pale, composed, a mask of porcelain perfection that hid the fact her bank account was overdrawn by three hundred dollars.

She picked up the single white rose from the passenger seat. The thorns had been stripped away, leaving the stem smooth and harmless. Just like her, the world thought. Harmless Eleonora. The bankrupt socialite.

She pushed the door open. The wind off the Atlantic cut through her trench coat, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. It was the anniversary of her mother's death. She stepped out, her heel sinking immediately into the soft, unforgiving mud of the Green-Wood Cemetery parking lot.

She frowned. These were Louboutins. Last season's, but still one of the few assets the Feds hadn't seized.

She opened her umbrella, fighting the gust that threatened to turn it inside out. Through the gray curtain of rain, she saw it. A black Maybach.

Julian's car.

A small, foolish warmth bloomed in her chest. He remembered. Despite the pressure from his family to distance himself from the toxic Compton name, he had come to support her.

She walked faster, the mud sucking at her soles. She reached for the handle of the rear door, intending to tap on the glass, but her hand froze in mid-air.

The car was shaking.

It was a rhythmic, subtle vibration that rocked the heavy chassis on its suspension.

Eleonora didn't breathe. She leaned closer. The privacy tint was dark, illegal in most states, but the window was cracked open an inch at the top, likely to let out the condensation fogging the interior.

Through the gap, she saw a flash of red.

Bright, aggressive scarlet.

She knew that color. Her stepsister, Tiffany, had bought a trench coat that exact shade last week, charging it to a credit card Eleonora had been trying to pay off.

Julian's voice drifted through the crack, breathless and low. "Don't worry about the broke princess. Once I secure her voting proxy for the trust, I'm dumping her."

The air left Eleonora's lungs. It wasn't a gasp. It was a vacuum.

She didn't scream. She didn't reach for the door handle to rip it open. Instead, a cold, clinical clarity washed over her, freezing the blood in her veins.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands were steady. Too steady.

She tapped the camera icon, switched to video, and held the lens up to the gap in the window.

The camera focused. It caught the movement. It caught the audio. It caught the side of Julian's face, contorted in pleasure, and Tiffany's distinct, mocking laughter.

"She's so pathetic, Julian," Tiffany moaned. "She actually thinks you love her."

"I love her trust fund," Julian corrected.