The polished marble floor of the St. Jude Memorial executive wing mirrored the harsh fluorescent lights, casting a sterile, blinding glare over the scene.

While my father and I sat in peaceful warmth in the Fifth Avenue penthouse, the underworld of Manhattan’s disgraced elite was spinning out of control.

In a cheap motel room near the New Jersey border, Savannah Montgomery sat on the edge of a stained mattress, frantically scrolling through her phone while clutching a bottle of cheap vodka.

Her social media accounts had been permanently banned. Her designer clothes had been seized by federal marshals to cover her embezzlement restitution. Her friends—the socialite vampires who had laughed at my Target cardigan—had blocked her number faster than you can blink.

She was alone. Broke, desperate, and facing five years in federal prison for financial conspiracy and accessory to fraud.

Her phone rang. An incoming call from an unsaved number.

Savannah snatched it up instantly, her voice cracking with hysterical hope. “Preston? Is that you? Did your lawyers find a loophole? Are we getting out of this?”

“It’s not Preston, Miss Montgomery,” a cold, clipped voice echoed through the speaker. It wasn't a lawyer. It was Marcus Vance.

Savannah’s breath hitched. Her hand began to shake so violently she nearly dropped the phone. “You... what do you want? I didn't do anything! Preston forced me! I was just an innocent bystander!”

“An innocent bystander who helped orchestrate the illegal institutionalization of a pregnant woman,” Marcus replied, his voice devoid of any human warmth. “Federal prosecutors have just reviewed your cooperation offer. They rejected it.”

“No! No, wait! I have dirt on Preston! I know where he hid the offshore kickbacks!” Savannah shrieked, tears streaming down her face as the reality of her prison sentence crashed over her like a tidal wave.

“We already found the kickbacks, Miss Montgomery. Every single dollar, accounted for and seized,” Marcus said calmly. “I’m just calling to let you know that your surrender deadline is 8:00 AM tomorrow morning at the federal intake facility in Brooklyn. If you aren't there, the U.S. Marshals will pick you up from your motel room in handcuffs.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Savannah stared at the blank screen of her phone for five long seconds. Then, she let out a piercing, hysterical scream of pure rage and despair, hurling the phone against the motel wall, where it shattered into a dozen plastic pieces.