The turmeric latte was cooling in her hands, the yellow-gold liquid matching the morning sun hitting the limestone facades of the neighboring estates. Vivian leaned her weight against the wrought iron of the balcony, the metal cold against her forearms. From this height, looking out over the steep, near-vertical drop of the hillside, the neighborhood felt like a kingdom of quiet giants.
When she was six, these peaked roofs and sprawling turrets had made her feel like a princess. At ten, she'd stood on this exact balcony and played Rapunzel, imagining the drop was an impenetrable abyss and the garden below was an enchanted forest. Now, the architecture just felt heavy.
She looked toward the horizon, where the treeline broke for the newer developments. First Zenith, then the Hill, and now Forest Hills—each generation of their social circle trying to build a new fortress to escape the "Golden Dome" of the one before it. She wondered what the next one would be called. Her own plot at Forest Hills was already secured, a phantom address for a life that had already been curated for her use, but not her input.
A sharp ding from the bedside table shattered the silence.
Vivian set the latte down on the nearby two-person wrought-iron breakfast table and retreated into the room. The email notification was from one of the shell companies she'd painstakingly set up to keep her charity work invisible to her father.
Subject: URGENT – Disruption in Rental Subsidy Payments (Bright Horizons)
"The pre-authorized transfer for the transitional housing program has been declined. Several residents who have aged out of the group home are now in arrears. Please advise if the foundation intends to honor the standing commitment..."
A cold wave of guilt washed over her. She had been so focused on her own "war" with her father that she'd forgotten the collateral damage. By freezing her primary accounts, he hadn't just stopped her from buying shoes; he'd effectively put half a dozen young women on the verge of eviction.
She needed to fix this immediately.
Vivian grabbed her bag and moved. She hurried down the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing off the marble. It was only 8:00 AM; her grandparents wouldn't be down for breakfast for some time. She considered waking them, but her gut twisted at the thought. She hated begging for anything—especially from her family.
"Miss Vivian? You're up early. Is something wrong?"
Grace appeared from the morning room, a silver tray in hand. Vivian didn't stop, walking backward toward the front door to keep the conversation brief.
"I'm so sorry, Grace, I'll be back soon," Vivian said, her voice tight with a forced lightness. "Something happened and I just need to fix it quickly. I'll be back!"
She slipped out the door before Grace could ask another question.
Travis was already in the parking lot, standing at attention beside the black town car. He straightened as she approached, his professional mask firmly in place.
"Travis," Vivian said, stopping short. She looked at him, her lip thinning. She'd never had to consider the actual balance of a security professional's bank account. It felt like a fresh humiliation to even have to ask.
"Yes, Miss Kane?"
"Can I borrow some money? I'll pay you back today. I just need to wire some money immediately."
Travis's expression didn't flicker, though a lump had already formed in his throat. He was hoping it wouldn't be an amount untenable. He made good money, but he was no billionaire. "Of course, Miss Kane."
"Thank you," Vivian said, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. She opened her phone and turned the screen toward him, showing the routing details for the Bright Horizons account.
"How much?" Travis asked, pulling out his device.
"Fifty thousand."
Travis's hands shook as the amount drifted through his ears. It was a hefty sum. His heart raced and his fingers nearly cramped in protest as he opened his banking app. But he knew Miss Kane would pay him back. He tapped through the menus, watching his now-empty savings account drain into the ether.
"The transfer is complete, Miss Kane."
Vivian let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding since she saw the email. "Thank you so much. We need to go to Cromwell Bank. Now."
She pulled open the back door of the town car and got in. As Travis got behind the wheel, his heart rate finally began to steady, knowing that he would soon have his funds returned.
The breakfast table at the Westbrook estate was usually a place of jovial noise and high-energy planning, but this morning, the atmosphere was gloomy. The only sound was the scrape of a spoon against a porcelain bowl.
Orlando sat at one head of the table, his expression a storm cloud. The opposite end—Warrick's seat—remained pointedly empty. Gunner was in his usual spot on the side, tucked between his mother and the empty chair, sitting directly across from his sister, Natalia, and her husband, Harrison.
Hunter was perched on Gunner's lap. Gunner was painstakingly feeding the boy oatmeal, a small, reserved smile playing on his lips. Hunter was rambling, his voice high and sweet, recounting a story from his previous day in three-word bursts. Gunner merely nodded, his focus entirely on his son, using the child as a human shield against the heavy stares of the adults.
Beside him, Aubrey watched her son with a mother's worried gaze. Her eyes kept darting to Gunner's hand. The bandage was fresh, but a few droplets of blood had already seeped through the gauze, pooling like dark crimson stains. She had tried to get answers last night, even going so far as to press his security detail, but the dynamic had shifted. They were loyal only to her son now.
Natalia, never one to let a tense silence linger, was the first to poke the bear. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, her tone somewhere between curiosity and a challenge.
Gunner's eyes flicked toward her for a fraction of a second—cold and unblinking—before returning to Hunter. He didn't say a word.
"Leave him alone," Harrison muttered under his breath to his wife. He could see the tension in Gunner's jaw; his brother-in-law was a ticking time bomb, and Natalia was playing with the fuse.
"She's so annoying," Natalia muttered quietly to her husband before rolling her eyes. She looked at her brother as if he were a teenage girl dealing with heartbreak. Since the direct approach failed, she pivoted to her father. "Where's my sister-in-law? I thought Vivian would be here by now," she said, leveling her brother with an overly sweet smile.
Orlando's jaw tightened. He had been wondering the same thing. "That is a very good question," Orlando said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. He looked directly at his son. "What is the problem? And why haven't you fixed it?"
Aubrey instinctively rested her hand on Orlando's arm, but Gunner remained a statue.
"Do you hear me?" Orlando's voice deepened, his arms folding across his chest.
"I don't owe any of you answers," Gunner said, his voice like ice.
The sudden sharpness caused Hunter to freeze. Noticing the change instantly, Gunner's expression softened. He patted Hunter's head, giving him a broad, reassuring smile.
"In my house, if I ask a question, it will be answered," Orlando barked.
"Orlando—" Aubrey started.
Orlando raised a hand, silencing her. "Speak now."
The sound of his chair scraping against the floor was its own answer as Gunner simply hoisted Hunter into his arms and, without a backward glance at his father, turned and walked out of the dining room.
Upstairs in Hunter's room, Gunner set the boy down among his toys. When Hunter's nanny, Zoe, entered, he told her, "Go get Mrs. Dryden."
Moments later, the head of the household staff appeared. "Pack a bag for Hunter," Gunner said. "I'll be staying in my condo on Main Street, across from the office. Zoe, you'll be moving there as well."
Gunner crouched down, pulling Hunter into a fierce bear hug. "Alright, big man. Give me a hug. Daddy has to go to work."
"Love you," Hunter giggled.
"Love you too."
As Gunner headed for the exit, Orlando followed him down the corridor all the way to the front hall. "You're trying my patience," Orlando said as he followed him down the corridor all the way to the front hall.
"I have to go," Gunner replied, kicking off his slippers to slide into his outdoor shoes.
"Do you think it's wise to disrespect me in my own home?" Orlando grabbed Gunner's arm.
Gunner looked down at the hand gripping his arm before his eyes traveled back to his father's eyes, his shoulders straightening reflexively. "You need to back off."
Orlando's eyes widened in disbelief as he released his son's arm. "Back off? I need to back off?" he said while pointing at his chest, the pressure of his digit wrinkling his button-down shirt. As he shook his head, "Get out!" he snapped, turning away, unable to take the very sight of his own son at that moment.
Gunner shrugged, heading for the door. It was his intention to leave anyway.
The muttering of her husband made the search easy as Aubrey found him grumbling in the wake of the explosion of testosterone. She couldn't help but incessantly chastise her husband, following him as he readied himself for work until they ended up in the garage just across from each other as he tried to get into his car in an attempt to leave for work with the benefit of ending the conversation. The two continued bickering until they were interrupted by Zoe and several maids trailing behind her with luggage.
"What is this?" Aubrey asked.
"Young Mr. Gunner has instructed us to pack for him and Hunter, ma'am. They'll be staying at the Main Street condo."
Orlando turned to his wife. "You see? The disrespect. It's pervasive."
"Stop!" Aubrey sighed, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. "You need to fix this, Orlando. I will not have my grandson taken from me. Or my son. They both better be back in this house tonight."
She didn't wait for a response, storming off to find Warrick.
Travis drove with a stiff countenance; with his bank account fifty thousand dollars lighter, he felt the strain, unable to relax until the money was safely returned.
They pulled up to a limestone fortress—one of the oldest institutions in Omak, Cromwell Bank. The financial institution looked more like a museum than a bank. Inside, the branch manager, Mr. Belmont, practically beamed. He ushered her into his private office before she could even state her business.
"How can we help you today, Ms. Cromwell?" Mr. Belmont asked.
"It's Kane," Vivian corrected him.
"Of course, my apologies. How can I help you today?"
"I need to access the funds attached to Goodfoods Investment," Vivian said.
Mr. Belmont tapped a few keys. "Would you like this amount transferred to the account ending in 289764?"
"No. I need a client card for this specific investment account. I need to be able to access these funds directly."
Mr. Belmont was confused by the request. He couldn't fathom why she wanted a checking account with $200,000 when she had three other accounts totaling over 2.7 billion. But he nodded. "Certainly." He presented a sleek, temporary client card. "This is your temporary card. I just need you to slot it into the terminal here and select a password between four and seven digits."
Vivian followed the instructions easily.
"You're all set," Mr. Belmont said. "I have to ask—would you be interested in a line of credit? Or perhaps a dedicated credit card attached to this new account?"
"How much would the line of credit be for? And the limit on the card?" Vivian asked. She had never pondered such questions before, but with her precarious finances, it wouldn't hurt.
"We could start you with a million-dollar line of credit today," Mr. Belmont said. "And a credit card with a ten-million-dollar limit. I'm not authorized for more at this moment, but I could get the authorization."
"How long to get the card?"
"Two weeks to your address, or you could pick it up here. The line of credit would be instant, Miss Kane."
"Do the line of credit. Skip the credit card," Vivian decided. "Also, I need you to transfer sixty thousand dollars to this account." She unlocked her phone and displayed the account details on the screen for him.
The office door opened, and Mr. Belmont's assistant entered with a stack of paperwork. As she passed the bodyguard posted in front of the door, she spared him a tentative look before crossing to Mr. Belmont's desk and setting down the documents to be signed.
Once the documents were executed, Mr. Belmont stood. "Shall we make our way down to the safety deposit boxes?"
"Lead the way," Vivian said.
As they moved toward the private elevator, Mr. Belmont peppered her with questions, desperate to ingratiate himself. He talked about his management and how the branch had grown, hoping to impress the first Cromwell he had ever met. Vivian just nodded along but said nothing.
The elevator opened to the vault. Mr. Belmont used a key to eject her box from the wall and led her into a private room. He set the box on the table and respectfully left her alone, passing by Mr. Smart as the bodyguard took his post right outside the door, watching Mr. Belmont try to entertain himself while he waited.
Vivian pulled the lid back. Inside were antique jewelry, some raw uncut diamonds and pearls, a Glock, and a few loaded magazines. Paperwork for various companies lay at the bottom.
Vivian held the uncut diamond in her hand, looking over its luster one last time before shoving it back into its pouch along with its certificate of purchase and value. 1.2 million, she muttered to herself. The value of such a small stone was laughable, but it would tide her over for a few months while she figured out how to get her trust back.
At the largest mall in Springbrook, financial responsibility was not something current patrons had to worry about. The once bustling cathedral of marble and glass was silenced for the afternoon. Rows of luxury stores stretched into the distance, each guarded by an attendant with folded arms.
Himari, Nala, and Daya moved down the center of the vast corridor.
"I still can't believe I wasn't invited," Himari threw her pin-straight black hair over her shoulder as she straightened her custom designer off-the-shoulder top and jeans, making sure she looked presentable as she spoke to her friends. "Everyone went except me." She couldn't understand why no one had told her about the party; it felt as if she were being replaced by Nala. Why would the older members of their group invite Nala over her?
"I wasn't invited either," Daya added. Her floor-length skirt swayed around her as she absentmindedly fingered the material, though internally she knew her father wouldn't have allowed her to go anyway.
Nala let out a yawn, thinking about how exhausted she was since she came to hang out with them right after work, not even having a chance of changing out of her wide-legged pinstripe pants and matching vest. Her curly afro was on display and she felt like she would have to be detangling her hair the moment she got home. She shifted slightly. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, you know? It wasn't planned."
Himari pulled out her phone, flashing photos from the Silver Spoon group chat. "Look at this. There's matching decor. Meaning there was more than enough time to invite me."
Daya leaned in. "I really wish I was there. It looks like so much freaking fun. But there's no way I could go—I was babysitting my brother again. I still have tiaras from when I did pageants; I could have worn my winning crown."
"Right," Himari said. "I totally forgot about the tiara part of the tears party. The whole divorce thing doesn't seem that sad, does it? Not when you see these pictures."
Daya sighed. "The end of any relationship is always devastating." Daya didn't have much experience with love or relationships, but she offered her perspective anyway. "She may not marry for years, or at all. This could be it."
Nala remained quiet, especially since she was now engaged to Himari's brother, Ji-ho. She didn't want to say the wrong thing, now that her relationship with Himari was different.
"She's obviously going to remarry," Himari scoffed. "She's what? Twenty-eight?"
"No one decides they're done with dick for the rest of their life because they divorced at twenty-eight," Himari continued.
Behind them, one of the bodyguards trailing the group cleared his throat—a subtle warning for her to mind her words. Himari glanced over her shoulder at him, scoffing, before turning back around.
Daya laughed, rolling her eyes. "True. I talked to my dad about how it will go when I get married, and he doesn't plan to marry me off at all. He's convinced he's all I need."
Daya looked at the other two. "What about you guys? Any mergers on the horizon?" she asked jokingly.
Himari froze, her steps faltering for a split second before she continued walking, her eyes darting toward Nala. She wasn't prepared for everyone to find out that one of her best friends was marrying her brother.
Nala scratched her wrist, her cheeks flushing a soft pink as she avoided Himari's gaze. She hadn't expected to be asked this question, but she refused to lie to her best friends. "Well... I'm not allowed to announce anything yet, but Ji-ho... we're engaged."
Daya stopped dead in her tracks. "What?" The word left her mouth in a high-pitched shriek as she quickly stepped in front of Nala, who looked ready to bolt. "What? Wait!" She looked between the two women, shock radiating from her. "When did this happen?" Cutting herself off, she raised her hands in surrender. "We need to sit. Oh my god. You're getting married," she gestured wildly at Nala before pointing at Himari, "to Himari's brother! Wait, this is—he's old!"
"He's not old," Nala defended playfully. "And he's really handsome, so screw you."
Himari was the first to break away from Daya's incessant questions, making her way over to the Louis Vuitton store as she finally decided to speak, feeling as if there was no way of avoiding this conversation. "It's exciting that Nala will be my sister-in-law. It's definitely good that I already know you."
Noticing the tension, Daya tried to subtly change the topic. "Well, I guess the Hill News was correct about wedding bells. What about you, Himari? Any fiancés we don't know about yet?"
Himari picked up a designer slide and handed it to a salesperson. "Size seven." She turned her head to look at Daya, her smile obviously fake and lacking its normal enthusiasm. "I'm not secretly engaged," she said, before turning back to the display of shoes.
"Everything on the Hill is a secret. Do you think there's more?" Daya mused. "Should we guess who the other couples are?"
"For sure," Himari said. "Bells don't just ring once. There have to be more."