Chapter 2

The moment my words landed, the table fell into one second of dead silence.

Derek's eyes followed the manager's retreating figure, then snapped back to me. He erupted into derisive laughter.

"Put it on your tab?" He gestured dismissively at the manager now disappearing through the service entrance, my card in hand. "Cordelia, what is this? Did you buy that thing off Wish or something? Are you out of your damn mind?"

He straightened his bespoke tailcoat.

"I'm VP of Alpha Beta. I personally approved half the guest list tonight. And you? Some broke-ass scholarship case barely scraping by, and you dare waltz in here acting like you belong?"

Snickers rippled through the crowd.

"She can't seriously think a nameless fake card will fool anyone, right?"

"So embarrassing. When the manager actually shows up, they'll throw her out for disrupting a private event."

I leaned back in my chair, not even bothering to muster anger. Just absurdity.

For this vain parasite, I'd played the poor student for two years. I'd even anonymously covered his exorbitant Brotherhood dues. And he'd repaid me by climbing into Blair's bed for a few designer suits and a ticket into their world.

He had no idea that the ex-girlfriend who'd hidden her edge to protect his fragile ego controlled more capital than he could ever dream of.

I ignored the circus and calmly raised my water glass for a sip.

The manager who'd taken my card had been gone less than ten minutes when the heavy vintage double doors of the banquet hall burst open.

The raucous room went silent in an instant.

William Morrison, the hotel's managing director, strode in wearing an impeccable morning coat, his expression grave.

Behind him, four senior attendants in white gloves pushed a sterling silver cart. Resting on it were six bottles of wine with no labels—only ancient wax seals.

Every breath in the room caught.

This was Morrison. The supreme authority of this five-star institution, someone even mayor-level officials couldn't necessarily summon.

To everyone's shock, the managing director bypassed the roomful of stunned trust fund kids and wheeled the cart straight to our head table.

Derek's eyes lit up. He shot to his feet, plastering on a revolting smile as he intercepted Morrison. "Mr. Morrison, you came yourself? These wines are—"

Morrison inclined his head slightly, his tone impeccable:

"Romanée-Conti, 1945. To express this establishment's respect for tonight's most distinguished guest, we've brought these from the private cellar."

"Additionally, the hotel's owner has just issued instructions—all charges for the top-floor banquet hall tonight are waived."

The room gasped collectively.

1945 Romanée-Conti! The legend that fetched hundreds of thousands at Sotheby's. Not only priceless wine, but comping the entire night?

Derek's voice trembled with excitement as he grabbed Blair's arm. "Baby, your father arranged all this, didn't he? I knew it—a Winthrop Corporation executive has serious pull at this hotel!"

Blair visibly froze.

Confusion flickered in her eyes. Her father, regardless of his position, couldn't possibly warrant the managing director delivering treasures of this caliber.

But surrounded by awestruck and envious stares, she couldn't resist.

She lifted her chin haughtily, tucking hair behind her ear, claiming credit without a blush:

"Of course. Daddy and the owner are old friends. I casually mentioned the Brotherhood gathering tonight, and he had all this arranged."

"Oh my God, Blair, you're so modest!"

"This is real old-money class! Dropping millions like it's nothing!"

Flattery washed over her like a tide. Blair basked in the adulation, laughing delightedly, seemingly convinced of her own lie.

Morrison's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He started to speak, to clarify—then his eyes lifted and locked with mine in the shadows.

I leaned back, a sardonic smile curving my lips, and gave the faintest shake of my head.

Morrison understood immediately. He swallowed his correction, bowed respectfully, and silently withdrew with the attendants.

This hotel was but a drop in the Winthrop empire's ocean. Without my consent, he wouldn't dare expose the charade publicly.

"Cordelia, do you see now? This is what a class divide looks like." Derek turned to me, his gaze sweeping over me like I was trash. "Blair drops one word and gets six-figure gifts. That piece of scrap metal you flashed? Only earned you a room full of ridicule."

This cheap performance had become utterly tiresome.

Watching Blair's stolen triumph and Derek's pathetic display, I lost all appetite for staying.

I stood, draped my shawl over my shoulders, and looked around the table:

"Enjoy yourselves."

"And Derek," I paused, my eyes cold, "don't send me invitations to these tacky parties again."

I turned toward the exit.

But as I moved past them, Blair suddenly stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

Her inflated ego clearly couldn't pass up another chance to humiliate me:

"Wait, Cordelia. You think you can just walk out?"

I stopped, meeting her eyes. "Move."

Blair glanced around the room, then spoke with deliberate condescension:

"You don't get to enjoy my family's hospitality. So pay us for what you drank before getting out."