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The three women fled pale-faced, couldn't even grab their makeup bags, and stumbled out in panicked chaos.

The door swung twice. The bathroom fell silent again.

Isabella stood there, gaze cutting through the air to land on me.

I stood frozen, staring at my old friend.

Four years ago that spoiled girl living under her father's halo—now completely stripped of recklessness, every movement carrying the steady ruthlessness of someone standing at fashion's peak.

"Haven't seen you in years, and your temper's gotten mild as a nun." She set down her coffee, pulled a slim Saint Laurent lipstick from her bag, and touched up her color in the mirror. "Letting trash like that ride roughshod over you—did drinking canal water every day in Venice waterlog your brain, Ruby?"

I looked at her sharp profile in the mirror, felt that tight string in my chest suddenly loosen. I exhaled the stale breath trapped in my lungs. "I can't match your cutting tongue, Isa."

"Then you better practice." She capped the lipstick with a crisp click.

She turned, those gray-green eyes fixed on me, and pressed her lips together. "Got time to sit downstairs? But don't expect me to pay."

I smiled. "My pleasure, Isa."

Ten minutes later, quiet outdoor café seating in the hotel's first-floor side wing.

Early autumn Manhattan breeze stirred the umbrella. Two steaming caramel macchiatos sat on the table.

These past two years, on "Wild Rose's" social media, a mysterious account had been fighting every troll who mocked my body or background—screaming replies from technical skill to character, citing sources until she drove them to delete their accounts. When I sent a private message, she left me on read for a solid month before finally replying with an arrogant "Mind your business, I just can't stand trash taste."

That account's IP always showed the Upper East Side.

Isabella took off her sunglasses, tossed them on the table, leaned back in her chair, lit a slim menthol. Blue-white smoke curled up from her fingers, blurring her sharply defined jawline.

"You still smoke that brand." I picked up my coffee, tried to lighten the mood.

"Virginia Slims Menthol." She exhaled smoke. "Haven't changed since sophomore year. You remember?"

"Of course I remember." I smiled. "First time you tried one, you coughed until you cried, but insisted you loved it."

"That's because that asshole senior said girls who smoked menthols were cool." She rolled her eyes. "I was stupid as hell back then."

"You weren't stupid, you were..." I searched for the right word. "Genuine."

"Bullshit." She tapped ash. "I was stupid. Got played by some football team jerk, thought I'd found true love."

I couldn't help laughing. "What happened to that senior?"

"What happened?" Isabella laughed coldly. "Daddy found out. That kid withdrew from Rutgers the next day. Heard his whole family moved to Oregon."

"Your dad's so..."

"Protective?" She finished for me. "Yeah. Fiercely protective of me. But to you he was..."

She stopped suddenly, realizing what she'd said.

Silence for a few seconds.

I knew our next topic wouldn't be light.

"Four years ago at Long Island, when Daddy took Chad to the basement, I was in the monitoring room next door." After a long silence, she took a deep drag, voice stripped of emotion, but her fingers holding the cigarette tightened almost imperceptibly. "I heard every word. Start to finish."

I didn't speak. Just held my warm cup.