Ophelia groaned inwardly as she stepped through the revolving glass doors of the Presidential Hotel, the icy blast of air conditioning slapping against her heated skin.
The scent of polished marble and white lilies wrapped around her. Crystal chandeliers shimred overhead. This was her sanctuary. Her territory.
And the best part?
She never paid.
She crossed the lobby in sharp, asured strides, heels clicking like a warning shot against the marble floor. Conversations dipped as she passed.
"I would like the Angel Suite, please," Ophelia said briskly, not bothering to smile.
"Of course, Ms. Welhaven." The attendant’s grin was bright, almost too bright. "May I have your card, please?"
Ophelia rifled through her purse with controlled impatience before producing the sleek black card with it’s crown logo and placing it on the counter.
The attendant typed.
Paused.
Typed again.
Her fingers slowed.
Her eyes flicked up quick, nervous.
Then she straightened, smile tightening.
"Could I have a minute, please?" the girl said, stepping back from the desk. "I just need to confirm sothing with the manager."
Cold lead dropped into Ophelia’s stomach.
Confirm what?
She had been coming to this hotel for years and never had she encountered such.
She turned slowly.
The lobby felt different now. Charged.
Two won by the fountain were whispering behind manicured hands. A man near the bar blatantly stared before pretending not to. A phone tilted slightly in her direction.
Filming?
Heat crawled up Ophelia’s neck.
She pivoted sharply and caught sight of the attendant attempting to slip toward a side corridor.
And then she saw red.
All the rage she had swallowed these past days. The betrayal, that courtroom disaster. It all surged like a ruptured dam.
"I have been coming to this establishnt for years," she snapped, her voice cutting through the lobby like shattered glass. "Do you know who I am?"
The attendant froze.
"Yes, Ms. Welhaven, I..."
"Then why," Ophelia demanded, stepping around the desk, heels striking hard against the floor, "are you running to your manager like I’m so kind of criminal?"
The word hung there.
Criminal.
A murmur rippled through the room.
The attendant’s composure faltered. "It’s just procedure, ma’am."
"Procedure?" Ophelia laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Procedure has never applied to here."
That was the problem.
The girl swallowed. "Your account, ma’am... it’s been flagged."
The world seed to tilt.
"Flagged?" Ophelia repeated softly.
"Yes, ma’am. There’s a note from ownership. All complintary privileges have been revoked pending..."
"Pending what?"
The manager erged then, smoothing his tie, smile already plastered on his face.
"Ms. Welhaven," he said carefully. "Perhaps we can discuss this privately."
Which ant: You are no longer untouchable.
The whispers grew louder now, less subtle.
Ophelia felt it, the shift. The invisible crown slipping.
Lyse had done this.
Infact, it was all Maeve’s doing.
"Sweet perfect Maeve."
Sohow still coming on top even from the grave.
Her jaw clenched, nails biting into her palms.
"Get the Angel Suite," she said quietly, dangerously. "Now."
The manager’s smile didn’t waver.
"I’m afraid," he replied, "that won’t be possible."
And for the first ti since stepping into that glittering lobby, Ophelia felt sothing worse than anger.
She felt small.
The words echoed longer than they should have.
That won’t be possible.
For a suspended second, Ophelia simply stared at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the apology. Waiting for the correction.
It didn’t co.
"I don’t think you understand," she said, her voice lowering into sothing silkier. More dangerous. "Put it on my account."
The manager’s expression shifted, just slightly. Not fear.
Pity.
"Your account has been closed, Ms. Welhaven."
A pause.
"And the card you provided..." He slid it gently back across the counter. "It has been declined."
The plastic felt heavier in her hand than it ever had before.
Declined.
A ripple of whispers moved through the lobby again. Soone definitely had their phone raised now.
Ophelia straightened slowly, every movent deliberate.
"You’ll regret this," she said, not raising her voice this ti. She didn’t need to.
The manager inclined his head politely. "I’m sure."
The humiliation burned hotter than the sun outside.
She turned and walked, no, glided toward the exit, refusing to run. Refusing to crumble. The revolving doors spun her back into the humid chaos of the city, and the heat wrapped around her like a punishnt.
Only when she managed to get a cab did her composure fracture.
She slamd the door and yanked her purse onto the seat beside her, dumping its contents onto the passenger seat. Lipstick. Compact mirror. Keys. Receipts.
No ergency cash.
Just all her cards.
Platinum, black, gold... all useless.
After the humiliation from the slick haired manager atthe presisdental, Ophelia did not want to try another place.
The next ti might just end with her harming soone and going to jail.
She shivered at the thought of the thug in the cell.
She grabbed her phone and checked her banking app.
Zero available balance.
The screen blurred.
All her funds had gone servicing the bail money since all her friends had refused to show up for her.
"Ma’am." The driver cleared his throat nervously. "Are you okay? Where are you going?"
Ophelia stiffened, calculating, thinking.
"Take to The Green Bricks."
—
An hour later, the streets looked vastly different.
Narrower.
Dirtier.
The skyscrapers gave way to low concrete blocks streaked with mildew and faded green paint. That was how it had gotten it’s na. Streetlights flickered even though dusk had barely fallen. Children ran barefoot between potholes. Music blared from sowhere off-key.
She asked him to park two streets away.
Her heels were impractical here. They clicked too loudly. She removed them and carried them in one hand, purse clutched in the other.
The building stood at the end of the road, four floors of cracked paint and rusted balconies.
Her husband’s "mistake."
Years ago, before the real estate boom. When he had been trying to prove a point to everybody. He’d bought this building as a cheap investnt and forgotten about it.
But Ophelia hadn’t.
The main entrance lock was broken. It hung loose, barely attached. She slipped inside without resistance.
The hallway slled of damp concrete and old cooking oil.
Apartnt 3C.
She climbed the stairs carefully, pulse thudding. Not from fear.
From indignation.
She was not ant for this.
At the door, she tested the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
She crouched and pulled a thin tal nail file from her purse. It wasn’t elegant, but it would do.
Two minutes.
Three.
The lock clicked.
Ophelia exhaled slowly and pushed the door open.
Dust.
Stale air.
The apartnt was empty except for an old sofa draped in a sheet and a small wooden table. The windows were grimy, the curtains yellowed.
But it was quiet.
It was hers, at least for now.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, sliding the bolt.
Her reflection caught faintly in the darkened window. Perfect hair. Immaculate makeup. Designer dress.
Standing in a forgotten apartnt in a crumbling neighborhood.
She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
You think this will break ," she murmured.
They might have taken all her money.
The status.
The comfort.
But they had forgotten sothing Important
Ophelia was like a cockroach, determined to live..
She needed access.
And this building? This neglected, under-the-table property?
It would be her hideout, her headquaters.
From there she would plan how to bring down every single one of them.
If they wanted war, she would start here.
Ophelia kicked off her heels, walked to the window, and pushed it open slightly to let the humid night air creep in.
Sowhere below, a dog barked.
She inhaled deeply.
It wasn’t marble floors and chandeliers.
But it was a foothold.
And Ophelia had nothing to lose.
She would do whatever it took.
Only this ti
She wouldn’t make the mistake of giving any of them a chance.
Especially not Maeve’s daughter.
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