Dylan unlocked her phone, her thumb tracing the cracked screen protector. She bypassed the standard carrier network, routing her connection through a proxy server in Zurich.

She opened a chat app. The contact name was simply: C. Peters.

She typed: My ride mentions a party at your place tonight.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Dylan! You're back?

A second message followed immediately. I saw the reservation. 'Clemons Party of 6'. I assumed it was for you. I'll fix it.

Dylan frowned. Fix what?

They booked the Standard Room. Insulting. I upgraded them to the Penthouse Suite. Only the best for my partner. Everything is comped. Champagne, caviar, the works.

Dylan closed her eyes. A headache began to throb behind her temples. Chet meant well. He always did. He thought the Clemons family actually cared about her. He thought he was treating her family.

He had no idea he was feeding the parasites.

She started to type: They hate me, Chet. Cancel it.

Her thumb hovered over the send button. She thought of Firman. Her grandfather. He would be there. He loved luxury, loved feeling important. If Chet cancelled the reservation now, there would be a scene. Glyn would scream. Firman would get stressed. His heart couldn't take the stress.

She backspaced.

Don't make a fuss. Just let it be.

Done, Chet replied. VIP treatment engaged. Welcome home, Boss.

Dylan sighed, rubbing her temples. The irony was a bitter pill. Her family was about to enjoy a ten-thousand-dollar night on her dime, celebrating a status they didn't have, all while treating her like a leper.

The Bentley slowed, turning off the main road. But instead of the hotel, it pulled up to the Clemons Estate.

The house was a monstrosity of new money architecture-too many columns, too much gold leaf, trying desperately to look like old aristocracy.

The driveway was empty. No welcome committee.

Mike stopped the car and popped the trunk. "Get out."

Dylan sat still for a second. "Where is everyone?"

"They're already at the hotel," Mike said, smirking. "They went ahead in the limo. You gotta find your own way. I'm off the clock."

He dumped her bag onto the asphalt driveway. "Don't scratch the paint getting your junk out."

Mike hit the gas, the Bentley peeling away, leaving her standing alone in the vast, empty driveway.

Dylan picked up her bag. It felt heavier now. She didn't look at the house. It wasn't a home. It was a museum of bad taste and worse memories.

She pulled out her phone and opened the Uber app. Uber Black.

While she waited, she switched apps to the security feed of The Sanctuary.

On her screen, she saw the lobby of the club. Crystal chandeliers, velvet ropes. And there they were. The Clemons family.

Glyn was strutting. Belle was preening in a silver dress that cost more than a car. Manager Franks-a weasel of a man-was bowing low to them.

"Right this way, Mr. Clemons," she could almost hear him say.

Dylan watched Belle snap a selfie, soaking up the adoration that was contractually obligated for the owner, not the owner's abusive cousin.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Dylan whispered to the screen.

The Uber dropped her off a block away from The Sanctuary. The rain had started again, a cold, miserable drizzle that soaked through her hoodie in seconds.

She walked toward the entrance. The club was glowing, a beacon of warmth and exclusivity in the dark city.

Glyn Clemons was currently inside, handing his keys to a valet with the exaggerated swagger of a man who believed he owned the world.

"Keep it close," Glyn told the valet. "I might need to leave early."

Inside, Manager Franks was ushering them toward the private elevator. "Mr. Clemons! Welcome to the Penthouse. A surprise upgrade, courtesy of management."

Lydia Clemons gasped, her hand flying to her pearl necklace. "Penthouse? I thought we booked the Gold Room."

"Of course," Glyn interrupted, puffing out his chest. "My reputation precedes me. They know who we are."

Belle flipped her hair. "Obviously. It's probably because of my TikTok followers. Blessed."

They disappeared into the elevator, high on their own supply of delusion.

Outside, Dylan approached the velvet rope.

A young man in a sharp suit-the new Concierge-stepped in front of her. He looked at her wet hoodie, her muddy combat boots, and the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

"Members only," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Or strict dress code for guests."

Dylan wiped rain from her eyelashes. "I'm meeting the Clemons party. They're in the Penthouse."

The Concierge laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "The VIPs in the Penthouse? I doubt it. Look at you."

He gestured to her boots. "No work boots. No hoodies. No baggage."

Dylan sighed. She was tired. "Call Manager Franks."

"Mr. Franks is busy with actual important people," the Concierge sneered. "I'm not disturbing him for a delivery girl."

Dylan's hand twitched. She could hack the door system. She could override the lock with her phone in ten seconds. But that would trigger a security alert. Chet would call. It would be a mess.

"Fine," she said, her voice steady. "Tell them Dylan is here."

The Concierge rolled his eyes but picked up the phone. He dialed the Penthouse.

Upstairs, Glyn answered. He was already chewing on a piece of wagyu beef.

"Who?" Glyn barked. "Dylan? Tell her to wait outside. We're eating."

He hung up. "The ungrateful brat is here."

Belle giggled, sipping champagne. "In those rags? She'll ruin the aesthetic. Don't let her up yet."

The Concierge hung up the phone and turned back to Dylan with a smug smile. "They said wait outside."

Dylan's eyes darkened. "Outside?"

"Yes. Move along. You're blocking the entrance for paying customers."

He stepped back, crossing his arms.

Dylan stepped back to the curb. She leaned against the cold stone pillar of the entrance. The rain fell harder, plastering her hair to her skull. She stood there, stoic, watching the warm, golden glow of the windows above. This wasn't submission; it was data collection. She needed to see them in their natural habitat, to gauge their arrogance. More importantly, she needed her grandfather to see this, to see how they treated her when they thought no one of consequence was watching. It was a bitter pill she had to swallow to justify the war she was about to wage.

The rain intensified, turning from a drizzle into a downpour. Water dripped down Dylan's neck, sliding under her collar like ice fingers. She pulled her hood up, shivering slightly.

Her phone rang. The screen lit up: Grandpa Firman.

She answered instantly, her voice softening, shedding the hardness she wore like armor. "Hi, Grandpa."

"Dylan?" Firman's voice was weak, wheezing. The sound of his breath rattling in his chest made her grip the phone tighter. "Are you here?"

"I'm... close," she lied. "Just got held up."

"Glyn says you're stuck in traffic," Firman said. "The food looks wonderful, Dylan. Glyn is having the steak. I wish you were here to taste it."

Dylan looked through the massive glass window of the first floor. She couldn't see the Penthouse, but she could imagine them. Glyn laughing. Lydia critiquing the wine. Beside them, her grandfather would look pale, a full plate of untouched food sitting before him as he nursed a glass of water.

"Yeah, traffic is bad," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. "Don't wait for me."

"I missed you, sweetheart," Firman whispered. "I wanted us all together. Just once."

Dylan swallowed the lump in her throat. It tasted like bile. "We will be. Soon."

"Are they treating you well, Grandpa?" she asked, needing to know.

"Oh yes. Best suite. Glyn really went all out for you. He said this was to celebrate your return."

The lie stung. It burned. Glyn was taking credit for Chet's generosity, for her influence.

"That's... good of him," she choked out.

Firman coughed violently. It sounded wet, deep in his lungs. "I have a gift for you. Later."

"Rest, Grandpa. I'll see you at the house."

She hung up, her face wet with rain and suppressed tears.

Inside, the dinner wrapped up. Glyn signed the bill-which was zeroed out, thanks to Chet-with a flourish, leaving a pitifully small tip for the waiter.

They walked out of the revolving doors ten minutes later. Manager Franks was there, holding a massive umbrella over Belle and Lydia, protecting their blowouts.

They didn't see Dylan in the shadows at first.

Firman was in a wheelchair, being pushed by a private nurse. He looked frail, his skin like parchment paper.

Dylan stepped forward from the pillar. "Grandpa."

The family froze. Glyn's smile vanished instantly.

Belle wrinkled her nose, looking Dylan up and down. "Ew. Look at her. Like a drowned rat."

Firman's eyes lit up. He tried to lift his head. "Dylan!"

He tried to stand, his hands gripping the armrests, but he was too weak. He sank back down.

Dylan rushed to him, ignoring the disgust on her aunt's face. She knelt beside the wheelchair, taking his hand. It was cold. Too cold.

"Grandpa," she said softly.

Glyn stepped in between them. He shoved Dylan's shoulder. "Don't touch him with those dirty hands."