Chapter 2 2

Ainsley's worn sneaker hit the final oak step of the spiral staircase.

The orange glow from the massive living room fireplace stretched her shadow long and thin across the floor.

Preston Yates sat dead center on the imported Italian leather sofa.

He held a crystal glass of bourbon in his right hand. His eyes were flat and devoid of any warmth.

Meredith sat beside him, slowly turning the glossy pages of a fashion magazine.

She didn't even blink or lift her chin, treating Ainsley like empty air.

Preston lowered his glass. The thick crystal bottom slammed against the expensive marble coffee table with a heavy, warning thud.

He reached into the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a leather-bound checkbook.

He uncapped a Montblanc fountain pen and quickly slashed a string of numbers across the paper.

Preston ripped the check from the binding and pushed it to the very edge of the marble table.

He tilted his chin up, gesturing for Ainsley to take it with the exact posture of a man tossing a coin to a beggar.

Ainsley walked forward.

Her eyes dropped to the piece of paper. The number five hundred thousand was written in bold black ink.

A flash of absolute, freezing mockery crossed her dark eyes.

"Take it," Preston ordered, his voice dripping with charity. "That's more than enough for a Greyhound bus ticket back to whatever broken-down rust-belt town you crawled out of."

Meredith finally turned a page of her magazine.

"And don't ever try to contact Katharina again," Meredith added coldly. "We are done letting you leech off our daughter."

Ainsley didn't say a single word in defense.

She simply reached out her pale, slender fingers and pinched the edge of the flimsy paper.

A gleam of smug satisfaction flashed in Preston's eyes. He leaned back against the leather sofa.

Poor people were always just poor people. Throw some cash at them, and they fold.

Ainsley held the check up in the air between them.

She gripped the top edge with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle.

The sharp, crisp sound of tearing paper echoed violently in the massive living room.

Meredith's hand froze mid-air over her magazine.

Ainsley stacked the two torn halves together. She ripped them again.

Her movements were slow, methodical, and elegant, like she was disposing of a piece of filthy trash.

Preston's face lost all its color, turning a sickly shade of gray.

He shot up from the sofa, pointing a rigid finger at Ainsley's chest.

"You ungrateful little bitch!" Preston roared.

Ainsley raised her hands high.

She opened her fingers and let the shredded pieces of the check fall.

The white confetti drifted down through the air, landing all over the pristine marble table and floating into Preston's bourbon glass.

Ainsley looked dead into Preston's furious eyes.

Her voice was flat, carrying a piercing weight that cut through the room.

"The Thomas family's money is too dirty for me to touch."

Preston let out a harsh, barking laugh.

"You walk out of here, and you'll be begging on the streets by tomorrow! Those bottom-feeding parents of yours can't even afford to feed themselves, let alone you!"

Ainsley ignored his screaming.

She looked down at her own chest. She was wearing a thick cashmere cardigan embroidered with the Thomas family crest.

Her fingers moved rapidly, undoing the heavy buttons.

She pulled the expensive sweater off her shoulders, leaving herself in nothing but a thin, faded short-sleeve shirt.

Ainsley tossed the cashmere cardigan carelessly onto the pile of torn paper on the coffee table.

The physical tie was completely severed.

Meredith stared at the mess on her table and wrinkled her nose in deep disgust.

"Get the maids in here right now," Meredith yelled toward the kitchen. "I want this entire table sterilized!"

Ainsley adjusted the strap of her canvas bag on her shoulder.

She turned her back to them and walked straight toward the heavy mahogany double doors.

Preston screamed curses at her back.

"The second you step out that door, you are dead to us! Don't you dare come crawling back on your knees begging for scraps!"

Ainsley reached out and wrapped her hand around the freezing brass handle of the front door.

A microscopic, cold smile touched her lips.

She pulled the heavy door open.

The freezing late-autumn wind blasted into the heated living room, whipping Ainsley's dark hair wildly around her face.

Up on the second-floor landing, Katharina stood gripping the railing.

She stared down at Ainsley's thin, shivering back, her eyes shining with toxic, victorious glee.

Ainsley stepped over the threshold.

She left the suffocating luxury and the sickening hypocrisy behind her without a single ounce of hesitation.

She reached back and slammed the heavy mahogany door shut.

The massive boom shook the doorframe, instantly slicing off Preston's screaming voice.

Ainsley stood alone on the pitch-black asphalt of the driveway.

She took a deep breath of the cold, invigorating air. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and prepared to dial that mysterious number.