Chapter 2

The phone was picked up after three rings, and Henderson's respectful, polished voice came through.

"Good evening, Miss Teresa. This is The Pearl. How may we assist you tonight?"

"Good evening, Mr. Henderson." I stepped onto the balcony and slid the glass door shut behind me, cutting off the noise from the dorm.

"There's going to be a girl named Jennifer coming in tonight, bringing a few girls from our school. She'll be using my secondary black card."

"Of course, Miss Teresa. Would you like me to arrange your usual private suite for them?"

Henderson's tone carried no surprise—after all, it was common enough for heirs of old money families to lend their cards to friends.

"No. No special treatment whatsoever." I watched from above as Jennifer herded several girls into an Uber on the street below, my gaze hardening.

"Also, I need you to modify the authorization settings on my account."

"Go ahead, please."

"From this moment forward, that secondary card only grants admission without a reservation. Any charges attempted at the club—any charges at all—must go through my dual authorization before being billed to my account."

I paused, enunciating each word carefully.

"The system must send a six-digit verification code to my personal phone. Only after the server enters that code into the terminal can the charge go through. Without the code, refuse any signature or charge in any form."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

I could even hear the keyboard strokes pause for a beat before Henderson's voice returned, more respectful than before, almost sympathetic:

"Understood, Miss Teresa. I've just applied the highest level security lock to your account. Without your mobile verification code, no one will be able to charge a single cent to your account tonight."

"Thank you. And don't warn them about this policy in advance."

"As you wish. Have a pleasant evening."

I hung up, picked up a glass of water, swallowed my allergy medication for the night, and returned to my desk.

Opening my iPad, I mentally ran through Jennifer's tab from the past few months.

The woman's vanity bordered on pathological.

Her first day in the sorority, she'd shown up in a Gucci jacket covered in logos, telling everyone her dad had brought it back from Milan.

I'd spotted it instantly—the stitching, the hardware—straight from a wholesale market in LA. High-quality fake.

This wasn't her first rodeo with being cheap, either.

Every time we split the bill at group dinners, she'd drag her feet until she was the last one to pay, then claim, "Oh my god, Venmo flagged my account, I'll get you cash tomorrow." Tomorrow never came.

Last month she'd borrowed five hundred bucks from me for a secondhand Celine bag. Still hadn't mentioned paying me back.

Just last week she'd posted her fresh manicure in the group chat, caption: "treat myself"—I knew that salon. Two hundred minimum.

And with finances like that, she had the audacity to claim she'd cover a VIP oceanview booth at The Pearl tonight?

I let out a cold laugh. Her little scheme was so transparent I could see through it from three thousand miles away.

She figured I was the kind of soft target who'd be too embarrassed to make a scene.

Her plan was obvious: rack up charges on my card tonight, let the system auto-bill me, then come crying later with some sob story. "I'm so sorry, Teresa, I had no idea it was that expensive. I'll pay you back slowly."

She probably assumed I'd be like those other trust fund kids who'd rather throw money at the problem than deal with the awkwardness.

Too bad she miscalculated. Rule number one in my family: never enable parasites.

I had money, yes. But I wasn't a charity.

My money could buy yachts. It could go to animal rescues. But it sure as hell wasn't going to subsidize someone's delusions of grandeur.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated. A message popped up in the sorority group chat, "LA Gossip Girls."

Zoe posted a video: they'd already made it into The Pearl's main hall. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, tuxedoed servers bowing as they led the way.

Jennifer walked at the front, twirling my black card between her fingers like a queen surveying her domain.

"Oh my GOD, Jennifer, you're amazing! We didn't even have to wait in line—the manager walked us straight in!" Zoe spammed heart emojis.

Mia followed up: "And we got the BEST oceanview booth in the house! I just saw that guy from the Netflix show at the next table! Your family must spoil you so much—how much does this even cost?"

Jennifer replied with a voice message, her tone airy: "Oh, you know, like twenty or thirty grand, maybe? My dad says what matters is that I'm happy."

I stared at that message, my smile widening.

"Order whatever you want," I murmured to myself, opening The Pearl's official app and pulling up tonight's wine list. Entry-level champagne: $1,200 a bottle. If they really went all out...

I leaned back in my chair, watching them screenshot and debate over the drink menu in the chat, my finger slowly scrolling across the screen.

Without my verification code, she wouldn't be spending a single dime tonight.

Now I was actually looking forward to it. When the bill arrived, would this wannabe LA socialite get on her knees and beg—or would she just combust on the spot?