"This contains the information regarding your biological parents," Preston said, his voice devoid of inflection. "And the arrangements for the next few days."

Journey reached out. Her hand was steady. She flipped the folder open.

The first photo was of a man. Kamron Cobb. He was wearing a hard hat, his face lined with grit and exhaustion. He looked nothing like Preston. He looked real.

"I'm so sorry," Alleen blurted out. Her voice was high, thin. "I didn't mean to ruin your life, sister. I just wanted to see my mommy and daddy."

She emphasized the words mommy and daddy, dragging the vowels out, turning them into weapons. She looked at Journey, waiting for the crack in the armor.

Victoria leaned in, wrapping an arm around Alleen's shoulders. "It's not your fault, darling. You've suffered enough."

Journey ignored them. She scanned the document. Queens. A fourth-floor walk-up. A food truck business.

It wasn't the Hamptons. It was better. It was anonymous.

Alleen was watching her, eyes darting between Journey's face and the file. She wanted tears. She wanted screaming.

Journey closed the folder. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

"When do I move out?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Alleen's mouth fell open slightly. Her sob story stalled in her throat.

Preston blinked, thrown off his script. He had expected begging. "Immediately. It's best for everyone."

"Journey," Victoria said, her voice trembling with performed guilt. "We raised you for twenty years. We don't want to be cruel..."

"For Alleen's sake," Journey cut in, her voice smooth as glass. "I should leave quickly. The media will have a field day if I linger. You need to control the narrative."

Alleen bit her lip. She realized, with a dawn of panic, that Journey was managing the situation better than she was. Journey was stealing the victimhood.

"Are you disgusted?" Alleen asked, her voice trembling. "Because my parents are poor? They're good people, even if they don't have... this." She gestured vaguely at the crystal chandelier.

Journey turned her head slowly. She looked at Alleen. She didn't glare. She just looked, dissecting the girl like a frog in biology class.

"I haven't said a word about them," Journey said. "Why are you so eager to tell me how I feel?"

Alleen flushed a blotchy red. She looked down at her hands.

Preston tapped the table, impatient with the female emotions cluttering his schedule. "Enough. Journey, we have prepared a settlement."

Journey raised an eyebrow.

Alleen's head snapped up. The grief vanished, replaced by the sharp calculation of an accountant.

A maid entered, placing a tea service on the table. The china clinked softly. Journey reached for a cup, pouring the tea, adding milk, stirring once, twice, three times. The spoon didn't touch the sides.

Alleen watched the ritual with naked envy. She tried to straighten her spine, mimicking Journey's posture, but she just looked stiff.

"Alleen is new to this life," Victoria said, noticing the contrast. "You'll have to forgive her lack of polish, Journey."

The implication hung in the air: You are the outsider now. You are the guest.

Journey set the cup down. It made a decisive click against the saucer.

"There is nothing to forgive," Journey said. "We are strangers now."

Victoria flinched as if slapped. Her face went pale. She hadn't expected the cut to be so clean.

Preston pulled a check from his jacket pocket. He placed it on the table.

One million dollars.

Journey looked at the zeroes. To a normal person, it was a fortune. To the Kensingtons, it was the catering budget for the annual summer gala. It was a payoff. A bribe to go away quietly.

"Severance," Preston said. "Enough to buy a property in Queens. Cash."

Journey felt a laugh threaten to escape again. She kept it behind her teeth. She placed her fingertips on the check and slid it toward her.

"Done."

Alleen made a small, choking sound. Her eyes were wide, fixated on the paper. She looked like she wanted to snatch it.

"However," Victoria added, her voice hardening, "you must sign this Non-Disclosure Agreement. Whatever happened in this house, stays in this house."

Journey took the pen from Preston's hand. She didn't read the text. She knew standard Kensington legal boilerplate better than she knew the Bible. She signed her name with a flourish. Journey Cobb.

She stood up. "I'll pack."

"Wait," Alleen said. She scrambled to her feet, blocking Journey's path to the door. "You can't take the Kensington things."

Journey looked down at the girl. Alleen was shorter, softer.

"Excuse me?"

"The clothes," Alleen said, pointing a shaking finger at Journey's outfit. "The jewelry. The bags. Mom and Dad paid for those. They belong to the family."

Victoria looked uncomfortable. "Alleen, honey, let her have the clothes..."

"No!" Alleen stomped her foot. "She's stealing!"

Journey turned to Higgins, who was hovering by the door. "Bring my trunks down, please."

Higgins nodded, disappearing. Moments later, two footmen carried three large Louis Vuitton trunks into the drawing room.

Alleen lunged for the nearest one, popping the latches. She threw the lid open. Inside, rows of silk, cashmere, and limited-edition leather stared back at her.

"See!" Alleen shrieked. "This is worth more than the check! You're a thief!"

Preston frowned, stepping forward. "Journey, if these were purchased with the family allowance..."

Journey reached into her handbag. She pulled out a thick stack of paper, clipped together. She tossed it onto the coffee table. The papers fanned out.

Receipts.

"Check the payment method," Journey said. Her voice was bored.

Preston picked up the top sheet. His brow furrowed. "L.C. Holdings? Who is this?"

"A private trust left to me by a godparent you've likely forgotten, managed through a holding company to minimize taxes," Journey lied smoothly. "Or perhaps you recall the dividends from my junior investments? I've been self-sufficient since I was sixteen."

Preston narrowed his eyes, studying the document. The explanation was plausible-L.C. Holdings looked like a standard shell for trust fund disbursements. He made a mental note to have his secretary run a background check on the entity later, just in case. For now, however, the paperwork appeared legal.

"Very well," Preston muttered, dropping the receipt. "It seems valid."

Alleen began digging through the trunk, her hands rough on the delicate fabrics. She was desperate to find a flaw, a Kensington crest, anything to prove Journey was a fraud. But there was nothing.

Journey stepped forward. She grabbed the lid of the trunk and slammed it shut. The wind from the movement blew Alleen's hair back. Alleen yanked her hand away just in time to avoid broken fingers.

"Don't touch my things," Journey said. Her voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

Alleen stumbled back, her eyes wide with genuine fear. For a second, she saw something behind Journey's eyes that wasn't a displaced socialite. She saw a shark.

Journey signaled the footmen. "To the curb."

She picked up the check, folded it once, knowing it would take three business days to clear the bank's fraud detection protocols, and walked out the door without looking back.

The driveway was empty. The town car was gone.

Journey stood on the gravel, the sky above threatening rain. The wind whipped her hair across her face.

Higgins came out the side door. He held a large black umbrella and extended it to her.

"Take care of yourself, Miss," he whispered.

Journey took the handle. Her fingers brushed his. "Thank you, Higgins."

It was the first honest thing she had said all day.

She pulled out her phone and opened Uber. She typed in the address from the file. Astoria, Queens.

While she waited, her phone buzzed.

Augustin: Boss, do you need the chopper? Or a extraction team?

Journey typed back with one thumb. No. I'm taking the scenic route.

A black Uber XL pulled up. The driver, a man with a thick neck and zero patience, popped the trunk but didn't get out. Journey heaved the heavy Louis Vuitton trunks into the back herself. A fingernail snapped-her index finger. She looked at the jagged edge, frowned, and slammed the trunk shut.

The car smelled of pine air freshener and stale cigarettes. As they crossed the Triborough Bridge, the city changed. The glass and steel of Manhattan receded, replaced by the low, sprawling brick of Queens.

Graffiti tagged the sides of buildings. Laundromats replaced boutiques.

The car stopped in front of a six-story red brick building. The fire escape on the front was rusted orange. A garbage can near the entrance was overflowing, a pizza box precarious on top.

"This is it," the driver grunted. "Hurry up, I'm blocking the hydrant."

Journey stood on the sidewalk. The noise was immediate-reggaeton blasting from a passing car, a siren wailing in the distance, kids shouting.

She looked up at the building. It looked tired.

A teenager on a skateboard woven past her, missing her toes by an inch. "Watch it, princess," he jeered.

Journey ignored him. She dragged the trunks into the vestibule. The air inside was thick with the smell of fried onions and bleach.

She pressed the elevator button. Nothing happened. She saw the piece of notebook paper taped to the metal doors: OUT OF ORDER.

Journey closed her eyes for a second. Fourth floor.

She kicked off her heels. She picked them up, holding them by the straps in one hand. With the other, she grabbed the handle of the first trunk.

The stairs were narrow and covered in linoleum that was peeling at the corners. By the second floor, her arms were burning. By the third, sweat was trickling down her back, ruining her silk blouse.

A door cracked open on the third floor. An older woman with curlers in her hair peered out. She looked at Journey-barefoot, holding expensive shoes, dragging a trunk worth more than the woman's car.

Journey nodded. "Good afternoon."

The woman slammed the door shut.

Journey reached the fourth floor. She was gasping for air. She stood in front of apartment 4B. The name Cobb was written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the door.

Inside, voices were raised.

"We don't have it, Elara! The rent is due and the medical bills..." A man's voice. Desperate.

"We can sell the truck," a woman sobbed.

Journey froze. Her hand hovered over the wood. This was real. This wasn't a boardroom negotiation. This was survival.

She knocked. Three sharp raps.