The penthouse was not just a home; it was a declaration of war against mediocrity. Located on the 55th floor of the city’s most exclusive residential spire, it floated above the smog and the noise, encased in floor-to-ceiling glass.
Inside, the air smelled of expensive lilies and the distinct, crisp scent of new money.
Linda moved through the crowd of guests like a shark in a tank of koi fish. She was wearing a dress that cost more than a mid-size sedan, holding a flute of vintage champagne. She wasn’t just hosting a housewarming party; she was holding court.
“Oh, the view?” Linda laughed, tossing her hair back. “It’s decent. David and I just felt that the other properties were so… claustrophobic. We needed space to breathe.”
Her guests—a collection of socialites, influencers, and people who were famous for being famous—nodded in sycophantic agreement.
In the corner, obscured by a large fern, stood Elena.
