Chapter 7 - The Empty Penthouse
The smart-lock on the double doors of the downtown penthouse clicked open with an automated chime, but the warm, inviting lights failed to activate. Madison stood in the cavernous entryway, her high heels clicking loudly against the dark hardwood floor as she flicked the light switch repeatedly.
"Power company suspension notice," she muttered, reading the digital display on the wall thermostat, which blinked a cold, unyielding sixty-two degrees.
The sprawling living room, usually bathed in the golden glow of designer chandeliers and smelling of expensive imported lilies, felt drafty and cavernous. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline, but the lights below felt mocking rather than comforting. Every square foot of this luxury estate was now flagged by federal marshals.
Madison dropped her white handbag onto the minimalist concrete coffee table and sank onto the grey velvet sofa. The teacup dog hopped down from her lap, trotted over to its empty water bowl, and let out a pathetic whine.
"I know, buddy. I'm hungry too," Madison murmured, burying her face in her hands.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone—the backup device she kept in her travel bag—and powered it on. Within seconds, her notification tray exploded. Tens of thousands of comments, stitches, and duet videos flooded her accounts. The internet had moved with terrifying speed.
#FraudulentVance, #TrustFundBabyTears, and #NurseClaraHero were trending globally.
Videos of her screaming at Clara in the hospital hallway were playing on news channels broadcasting from the muted television mounted on the wall. Commentators analyzed her outfit, her handbag, and her tone of voice, dissecting her character with clinical cruelty.
She tossed the phone across the room, watching it bounce harmlessly off a throw pillow. She was entirely alone. Her father was in a holding cell, her friends had blocked her numbers within minutes of the scandal breaking, and her entire identity had evaporated before sunset.
A sharp knock echoed through the penthouse foyer.
Madison froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. Had the marshals come back to evict her tonight instead of giving them seventy-two hours?
May you like
She crept slowly toward the entryway, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. Peering through the security peephole, she expected to see federal agents or hostile reporters. Instead, standing in the dim hallway was a quiet, unassuming delivery person holding a plain brown paper bag.
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