SHE KICKED THE MAID IN THE FACE AT THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS GALA OF THE YEAR—AND LAUGHED. SECONDS LATER, THE MAID CAUGHT HER ANKLE AND SLAPPED HER BACK. THEN SHE SAID FOUR WORDS THAT MADE THE HEIRESS GO PALE.

Two days after the gala, the autumn sky opened up in a relentless, bone-chilling downpour over Manhattan.

I stood under the marble awning of the Vanderbilt corporate tower, holding a heavy black umbrella, watching the rain beat against the glass doors.

A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The door swung open, and out stepped Chloe Vanderbilt. She wasn't wearing a champagne silk gown anymore. She wore an oversized, cheap trench coat, her hair damp and stringy against her face, desperately clutching a cardboard box filled with framed photos and personal trinkets.

Two corporate security guards had escorted her out of the executive penthouse thirty minutes before her father’s formal arraignment hearing.

As Chloe hurried across the wet pavement toward the subway entrance, she slipped on a patch of slick concrete, dropping her box. Photographs and makeup compacts scattered across the wet sidewalk.

She dropped to her knees, sobbing openly as the rain soaked through her clothes, desperately trying to scoop up her things.

I walked over, stepping into the downpour, and stopped right beside her. I lowered my umbrella, shielding her from the driving rain.