Luke Vance slapped my hand away in the middle of the Plaza Hotel ballroom, hard enough to

While Luke was being loaded onto the federal transport bus, Khloe Adams was learning the true price of her vanity.

Her plea deal had saved her from prison, but it hadn't saved her from reality.

Stripped of the money, luxury apartments, and luxury vehicles Luke had bought for her using embezzled funds, Khloe had been evicted from her Soho loft. Every modeling agency in Manhattan dropped her from their rosters. High-end brands publicly threatened to sue her if she ever tagged them in her social media posts.

On a freezing Tuesday morning, Khloe was standing in a yellow neon vest outside a community center in the Bronx, sweeping wet leaves and garbage from the sidewalk as part of her five hundred hours of mandatory court-ordered community service.

Her hands were raw and blistered, her designer boots ruined by muddy slush.

A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb.

The rear window lowered.

Khloe froze, dropping her broom into the gutter.

I sat in the back seat, holding a warm cup of coffee, looking out at her.

Khloe took a tentative, desperate step toward the car. “Samantha... please. Are you here to gloat? Isn't it enough that you destroyed Luke? I have nothing left! I’m broke! Nobody will hire me!”

“I didn't come to gloat, Khloe,” I said evenly.

She blinked, hope flickering in her eyes. “Are you... are you going to help me? I can do public relations for you! I can tell the press how Luke manipulated me! I can be your ally!”

I let out a soft, humorless laugh.

“You poured wine on me, Khloe. You laughed while another human being was bleeding at your feet. You didn't do that because Luke manipulated you. You did that because you enjoyed watching someone you thought was powerless suffer.”

Khloe’s face turned scarlet with humiliation.

“I didn't stop here to hurt you,” I continued. “I stopped here to give you this.”

I handed an envelope through the window.

Khloe took it with trembling, dirt-stained fingers. She tore it open, expecting a check or an offer of settlement.

Inside was a single printed document: a copy of her community service completion schedule, stamped with an official court notice indicating that if she missed a single hour, her probation would be instantly revoked and she would serve three years at Rikers.

“Finish sweeping the sidewalk, Khloe,” I said calmly. “You have four hundred and twenty hours left.”

The window rolled up. The car pulled away smoothly, splashing a wave of dirty puddle water across Khloe’s boots.