A strangled, guttural sob erupted from Beatrice’s throat. She stumbled backward, coming back into the iPad’s camera view. She scrambled for the device, grabbing it with shaking hands. Her tear-streaked, terrified face filled my screen.
“Elena! Are you still there?! Please!” she begged, openly weeping. “They’re going to arrest me! They’re talking about the maritime police! My friends left me! You can’t leave me stranded on an island in the Indian Ocean! I’ll die in a foreign jail!”
I sat back in my ergonomic leather chair. I looked at the sleek, beautiful architectural models surrounding me in my office—structures built on solid foundations, resistant to storms. Beatrice had built her life on a foundation of lies, and the hurricane had finally arrived.
“Remember what you told me at our rehearsal dinner, Beatrice?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “You told me that no matter how much money I made building office blocks, I would always just be a tradeswoman with dirt under my fingernails. You said I lacked the elite pedigree to truly understand luxury.”
“I was wrong! I’m sorry! I’m an old, foolish woman!” she wailed, clutching the iPad like a life preserver.