Before Ava could react, he yanked the folder from her hands.
“Please—no!” she cried, reaching for it. “That’s mine!”
Daniel tossed it onto the marble floor.
The folder burst open.
Papers scattered everywhere.
Legal documents.
Stock certificates.
Death certificates.
Photographs.
One photo landed face-up.
Her parents. Smiling. Alive.
Ava couldn’t breathe.
Daniel stepped closer, enjoying the horrified silence.
“Look at her,” he announced, as if presenting a show. “People at the bottom always think they can step into our world and take what’s ours.”
He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, crumpled it, and tossed it at her feet.
“There’s your handout, princess. Now pick it up—and get out.”
Ava dropped to her knees—not in obedience, but because her body gave out.
Tears fell uncontrollably as she tried to gather her papers.
Phones came out.
One.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The livestream view count climbed rapidly.
Daniel leaned down, his smile sick.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “On the floor. Where you belong.”
Six months earlier, that same morning, Ava had woken to sunlight pouring through the tall windows of her bedroom.
On her nightstand sat the photo she looked at every day.