Chapter 3

The engine's start sounded especially jarring in the middle of the night.

As I drove out of Victor's villa in the upscale neighborhood, I could still see the light on in the second-floor bedroom through my rearview mirror.

Two figures moved by the window, standing close together.

I looked away and stepped on the gas.

The black sedan hurtled over the slick asphalt, racing toward downtown.

With the window rolled down, the night air rushed in and whipped across my scalp. The spot where my hair had been shaved stung with a cold, sharp humiliation.

My phone kept buzzing.

I pulled over and picked it up.

Betrico Socialites group chat had over 99 unread messages.

Someone had turned the videos and photos Bianca sent into memes, slapping on captions like "I'm so miserable" and "I can't show my face." The group was having a full-on meme war.

Bianca dropped another post.

It was a photo. She crouched down, holding a handful of wet hair she'd fished out of the sink, flashing a big smile at the camera.

Bianca: [All collected. There's enough for Lucky to have a warm little bed. Thanks for the donation, Autumn.]

Lucky was her Maltese pup.

The chat exploded with "LOL" and "Bianca, you're so creative." as everyone hyped her up.

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The shaking had stopped. In its place, a cold numbness settled deep inside me.

I exited the group chat without saying a word.

I pulled up a name in my contacts and dialed.

After five rings, the call was answered. The voice on the other end was calm and alert, not like someone who'd just woken up. "Ms. Yeats."

"Bill," I said, my voice cutting through the silence in the car. "I need you to look into Starlight Capital, the one under Victor's name.

"Pull up all the financial records from the last three years, especially any big inflows or outflows, and track down where the money came from.

"Focus on whether there have been any secret, regular money transfers, especially if they went through third-party companies or personal accounts."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.

"Understood," Bill Anderson, the Yeats family's CFO, replied without missing a beat. "I'll have the full report sent to your encrypted email by ten tomorrow morning. Do you want me to start any other procedures at the same time?"

I stared out the window at the dim streetlights whipping past.

"Get the facts straight first," I said. "Effective immediately, any form of convenience, preferential treatment, or collaboration between the Yeats family's companies or partners and Starlight Capital is suspended and pending a full audit.

"Pass it down: not a single dollar goes into any Starlight Capital account without my personal signature."

"Understood," Bill said, pausing for a moment. "Ms. Yeats, there's something I need to report to you.

"Last week, Mr. Victor Sterling, under the name of Starlight Capital, urgently pulled 6 million from a joint offshore reserve account we partner on. The reason given was 'greasing the wheels for the final pre-IPO round.'

"It went through the fast-track process. Your father had previously given Mr. Sterling certain privileges, so..."

6 million? Greasing the wheels?

I sneered. "Got it. List that transaction separately. And pull together all his large personal and corporate transactions from the past three months for me."

"Understood," Bill said.

After hanging up, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat.

The car continued speeding toward downtown.

At 4:30 AM, I parked outside a members-only styling studio off Ashford Freeway.

This place was open around the clock, but only for clients with appointments. I hadn't been here in ages, but the owner still remembered me.

The moment he caught sight of my hair, he froze for a second. "Ms. Yeats, did something happen?"

"Shave it all off," I cut him off, dropping into the chair and staring at the unfamiliar, defeated woman in the mirror. "All of it. Buzz it down, as short as you can go."

The barber hesitated. "Are you sure? We could tidy it up a bit, you know."

"Shave it all off," I repeated, my voice low but leaving no room for argument.

He said nothing more and grabbed the clippers.

When the clippers touched the nape of my neck, I closed my eyes.

The buzzing vibrated against my skull. My long, ragged hair fell in clumps, silently piling onto the white cape.

It used to wind around Victor's fingers, and he'd once joked it felt like silk. It was one of the few things I thought was beautiful about myself.

Now, it was gone. Cut off by Bianca's scissors. Ruined by Victor's casual "It was just a joke." And lost in this feverish, absurd night.

The clippers moved steadily upward, leaving behind a trail of coolness, and a hollow emptiness that settled deep inside.

After what felt like forever, the buzzing finally stopped.

"All done, Ms. Yeats," the barber said.