Chapter 3

I closed my iPad and leaned back in my chair.

The dorm was so quiet I could only hear the white noise of the AC humming.

I didn't need to watch the group chat to know what was happening—Jennifer was out there with my black card, playing tonight's leading lady at The Pearl.

Before long, my phone started buzzing.

Not Jennifer looking for me. Snapchat and the sorority group chat exploding with notifications.

10:30 PM. Mia posted a nine-photo grid on Instagram.

Six girls in tight bodycon dresses crowded around an ocean-view booth, a massive ice bucket dead center on the table with three bottles of Armand de Brignac champagne.

Caption: [Thank you my rich baby @Jennifer! Tonight's Ace of Spades is more intoxicating than the LA skyline 🍾💸]

In the comments, even Riley—who usually got along with me—threw some shade: [Now that's a real friend. Not just talk.]

I raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping on my iPad calculator.

Armand de Brignac Gold. The Pearl's price: $2,500 per bottle. Three bottles—$7,500.

11:15 PM. Zoe posted a video in the group.

A server carried over an elegant silver tray holding a white truffle caviar tower on an ice sculpture.

Jennifer sat front and center, affecting an air of refinement as she scooped a tiny spoonful with a mother-of-pearl spoon and told the camera:

"The Beluga caviar here is actually fresh. Everyone try some—we can order more if we run out."

Someone screenshot it and sent it to me privately:

[Holy shit! Beluga caviar! One bite costs half my monthly budget!]

[Jennifer's been so low-key this whole time! This is what old money looks like—not like some people who carry Hermès every day but never treat anyone to a decent meal.]

Some people. Meaning me.

I let out a cold laugh and added another line to my calculator. Premium Beluga caviar service: $4,800.

Midnight. The party hit its peak.

Jennifer had clearly gotten drunk on the fake summit of being surrounded, worshipped, elevated by the crowd.

She probably figured—since it was my card anyway—that the numbers were just code in a system, not a cent out of her own pocket. Why not go all out?

My phone buzzed again. A text from Henderson.

[Ms. Teresa, sorry to disturb you. Your friend Ms. Jennifer has just requested a bottle of Louis XIII cognac and ordered six Kobe Tomahawk steaks. Their table's estimated total has now reached $48,500.]

[Additionally, Ms. Jennifer told the server, "Money's no problem—my friend has hundreds of thousands sitting in her account." We've recorded this statement per protocol. Would you like me to step in?]

Forty-eight thousand, five hundred dollars.

For one dinner.

I stared at that number for three seconds. Actually, no—I wasn't nervous at all. I just found it absurd.

Jennifer, oh Jennifer. You normally use coupons for a $10 Subway sandwich, but now you're ordering fifty grand worth of food without your hand even trembling.

You think that as long as you slap my card on the table, that fifty thousand dollars will just magically vanish into thin air.

I took a deep breath and typed a quick reply:

[No need. Let them enjoy themselves. Whatever they order, serve it. But remember—at checkout, you'll need my direct authorization for any charge over $50K.]

[Understood, Ms. Teresa.]

By 1:00 AM, the party was winding down.

Messages in the group chat slowed to a trickle—probably drunk enough, getting ready to head out.

I sat up from my bed, walked to my desk, and poured myself a glass of ice water.

I knew the real show was just about to begin.

Buzz—buzz—buzz—

1:15 AM. My phone went haywire, vibrating non-stop.

Screen lit up. Caller ID: Jennifer.

I didn't answer. Let the ringtone echo through the quiet dorm once, twice, three times.

Then the texts started flooding in.

Jennifer: [Teresa! Are you asleep? Pick up!]

Jennifer: [T please answer I'm literally begging you, it's urgent!!!]

Jennifer: [Teresa don't scare me, did your allergies get worse? Just text me back!]

I looked at those increasingly frantic messages, practically able to picture her right now in The Pearl lobby, facing the server with the bill, sweat beading on her forehead.

Then, right on schedule, Henderson's text arrived.

[Ms. Teresa, Ms. Jennifer is attempting to settle the bill using your account. Total amount: $52,380 (including 20% service charge). Per your instructions, we need your direct authorization to process this transaction.]

I stared at my screen, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

This might be the longest few minutes of Jennifer's life.

Jennifer's call came through again, this time a FaceTime.

I picked up my ice water, took a sip, and pressed decline.

Then I typed three words and sent them to Henderson:

[Not authorized.]