Chapter 3

Caleb kept his promise. He gave me "everything."

Within a week, I was moved out of my cramped apartment and into a sprawling penthouse suite at the top of the Scott Tower. The closet was bigger than my old living room, and he filled it with clothes I' d only ever seen in magazines. He bought me a white Maserati and handed me a black credit card with no limit.

I played the role of the Cinderalla, gasping at the designer labels, crying tears of joy over a diamond necklace. Caleb and his friends watched me with condescending amusement, their expressions clearly saying, look at the poor girl, so easily bought.

They thought I was a fool.

What they didn't see was me at 3 a.m., hunched over a laptop, creating a business plan. The designer gowns and jewelry? I wasn' t wearing them. I was renting them out. I found a network of aspiring influencers and models who would pay a premium to be photographed in a Chanel dress or wearing a Cartier bracelet for a few hours. The cash started flowing into a new bank account they knew nothing about.

I used my access to their exclusive world as a market research opportunity. At galas, I didn' t just sip champagne; I listened. I heard them complain about the lack of high-quality, convenient cocktail options for their private jets and yacht parties. I noted the specific botanicals and flavor profiles they favored.

My past wasn' t something I talked about, but it was the engine that drove me. I grew up in a forgotten Rust Belt town, the kind of place where hope dies young. My family wasn't a source of comfort; they were a burden. My mother was weak, and my brother was a drug addict. They saw me not as a daughter or a sister, but as a potential paycheck. The last time I saw them, they tried to steal my savings to pay off my brother' s dealer. I left and never looked back.

That history taught me one thing: dependency is a cage. Money is freedom. I wasn' t just playing Caleb' s game; I was building my escape.

I also created a secret social media account. I called it "Vegas Waitress: The High-Roller' s Project." I documented my journey, but I did it from Tara' s point of view-a snarky, anonymous blog detailing the "hilarious" experiment of turning a common girl into a society lady. I posted pictures of the gifts, the parties, the luxury, all with captions dripping with the kind of condescending cruelty I' d heard from Tara in the cabana.

"Day 37: He bought her a car. She cried. It was pathetic. #ProjectWaitress #VegasSocialExperiment"

The account started to gain a small, curious following. People were fascinated and disgusted by the anonymous socialite' s cruelty. They had no idea the "project" herself was writing it, building a narrative that would one day explode in their faces.

Every dollar I made from the rentals, every piece of market intelligence I gathered, went into one thing: my own brand of premium, ready-to-drink canned cocktails. I used my bartending knowledge to develop unique recipes with high-quality botanical infusions. It was my real project. My secret enterprise.

They thought they were building me up to tear me down. They were just funding my launch.