The evening moved from interesting to dangerous.
I ducked back into the business center and started making calls. My CFO picked up on the second ring and confirmed what I already knew: the Ashfords were six weeks away from losing their Connecticut estate. My legal team started preparing documents in case this little scheme turned into something uglier. And then I called David.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I told him. “Don’t talk to the Ashfords. Don’t talk to my family. Just wait.”
He hesitated only a second.
“Yes, Ms. Wong,” he said. “Twenty minutes.”
That’s why he was worth his six-figure salary—steady, loyal, sharp. And probably sitting on more actual net worth than the entire Ashford clan.
When I stepped back into the ballroom, Madison was standing near the DJ, a microphone in her hand.
“Thank you all so much for being here,” she said, voice echoing through the speakers. “Brett and I are so grateful to have you celebrating with us in the heart of Chicago. Two great families coming together—it’s more than we ever dreamed.”
Mrs. Ashford’s face contorted into what might once have been a smile if her forehead could still move. Now it just looked like she was trying to solve long division in her head.
Madison kept going.
“I especially want to thank my family,” she said. “My parents, who have worked so hard. And my sister, my extremely successful investor sister, who is actually here tonight. She’s secretly observing everything and will be making a significant announcement about the wedding later.”
I almost inhaled a crab cake.
My sister had turned me into a walking press release. A mysterious financial benefactor. A prop in her fantasy.
All while I stood ten feet away in a stained apron, holding a tray of appetizers she’d already called “a bit basic.”
Near the sound system, the man with the USB drive finished whatever he was doing. I recognized the setup; we’d seen it with DJs who liked to preload their own mixes. In about five minutes, something was going to blast through those speakers that was not on the approved playlist.
I texted my head of security.
“Copy the contents of the USB into a secure folder,” I wrote. “Disable playback from external devices. Back up all ballroom camera feeds from the last three hours.”
“Done,” he replied moments later.
I exhaled.
If Mrs. Ashford wanted a show, I’d give her one. Just not the one she’d paid for.
The night kept escalating in quiet, relentless ways. Chase cornered me again, this time with his hand at the small of my back, talking about his “crypto ventures” and how he could “take me out of this life.”
Felipe emerged from the kitchen looking like he’d survived a small war. Madison had texted him three different times with “urgent” changes to the dinner schedule—move it up thirty minutes, push it back forty-five, switch to an entirely different menu, then change it back.
The kitchen staff was on the verge of mutiny.
“I’ll take responsibility,” I told Felipe quietly. “Serve the original menu at the original time. Anything else, they can talk to me.”
He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time that night. Some part of him heard the authority in my tone, the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she owned.
He nodded once and disappeared back into his kingdom.
On my phone, the security footage I’d requested finished downloading. I opened it, scrubbed through, and felt a slow, cold satisfaction settle in my chest.
Not only had we captured Mrs. Ashford bribing the man in the gray suit, but she’d also been recorded going through Madison’s purse when my sister had left it at the table. She’d photographed something inside—ID, cards, whatever she needed for a background check.
They weren’t just broke. They were desperate and reckless.
The band had transitioned into the kind of generic jazz that fills expensive American hotel ballrooms when no one wants to offend anyone. David entered, folder in hand, and started making his way through the crowd.
He headed toward the head table where both families sat—Ashfords polished and stiff, my parents looking out of place in their simple clothes, like they’d rather be home on the couch watching a game show.
I watched from across the room as he leaned in to speak quietly.
Madison’s face lit up.
“Oh, that must be for me,” she said to the table, smoothing her dress as she rose. “The staff always call for me when something big needs a decision. I’ve practically been running this place for weeks.”
David walked right past her.
He scanned the room once, twice, then his eyes landed on me—hair in a messy bun, apron smeared with a few spots of sauce, tray in my hand.
I set the tray down on a nearby table and walked forward.
“Kinsley?” Madison’s voice cracked behind me. “Where is he going? He’s supposed to be talking to me. I’m Ms. Wong.”
David stopped in front of me and handed over the folder with a respectful nod. His voice carried just enough to reach the tables around us.
“Ms. Wong,” he said, “we have a situation with the Ashford party payment. The check has been returned for insufficient funds.”
Silence.
Total, absolute silence.
The ballroom sound system might as well have shut off. Even the clink of glasses stopped. For a second, all you could hear was the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint rush of traffic outside on the Chicago streets.
Madison’s face went through three stages in about three seconds: confusion, horror, and then fury.
“This isn’t funny,” she snapped. “Kinsley, what are you doing? Are you trying to embarrass me? Security, get her out of here. This is insane.”
That was the moment I’d been waiting for all evening.
I untied my apron slowly, folded it, and handed it to another server.
Then I turned to face the room.
“I think,” I said, letting my voice settle into the calm, practiced cadence I used in boardrooms and investor meetings, “there’s been some confusion.”
I let the pause stretch just long enough to pull every eye in the room toward me.
“My name is Kinsley Wong,” I said. “And I own this hotel. In fact, I own all seventeen Grand Meridian hotels across the United States.”
The gasp rippled through the room like a wave breaking against glass.
Mrs. Ashford’s face tried to register shock, but her Botox fought it. The result was almost comical—a frozen mask with eyes darting wildly. Mr. Ashford’s jaw tightened. Brett’s hands dropped from Madison’s chair. My parents looked like someone had switched the channel on their lives without warning.
But I wasn’t finished.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped a few buttons. The AV system responded immediately. The slideshow of engagement photos faded from the massive screens around the ballroom.
In their place, the security footage popped up.
There was Mrs. Ashford, crisp and clear in high definition, pressing cash into the palm of the man in the gray suit. There she was again, slipping her hand into Madison’s purse when my sister’s back was turned and lifting her phone, photographing the contents of her wallet.
And then, over the speakers, the audio file she’d tried to sneak in through that USB started playing—not from the DJ’s equipment, but from my phone routed through our system.
It was Madison’s voice. Or at least, it sounded like Madison.
“I’m just going to take their money,” the edited voice said, chopped and rearranged. “They’re so desperate and clueless. I’ll bleed them dry.”
Heads swiveled in unison, eyes bouncing from the screens to Madison and back.
The room erupted into overlapping whispers.
“No,” Madison whispered, hands flying to her mouth. “I never said that. I never—Kinsley, I didn’t—”
I raised a hand and the volume dropped.
“That recording,” I said, “was loaded onto our sound system tonight using this USB drive.”
I held the drive up between two fingers.
“It was delivered by the gentleman you just saw taking money from Mrs. Ashford on the footage. We’ve backed up every second. We’ve saved the original files. Nothing can be edited now without us knowing.”
Mrs. Ashford pushed to her feet.
“This is an invasion of privacy!” she snapped. “How dare you surveil us like criminals? This is outrageous. Brett, say something!”
Brett opened his mouth, closed it, and stared at the screens again.
“And this,” I continued calmly, “is the part where I mention that someone going through a guest’s personal belongings is, in fact, a crime. As is paying someone to sabotage an event in a privately owned venue.”
Chase tried to slip toward the exit, shoulders hunched, but I wasn’t done with him either.
“Oh, Chase,” I said, turning my head just enough for my voice to find him. “You still want to discuss that little business proposition of yours? The one where you offered to ‘change my life’ if I was nice to you?”
A few guests turned to look at him.
“I have that conversation on audio as well,” I added, “in case anyone’s curious how you treat women you think have no power.”
His face went through a whole holiday-color palette—red, white, then a sort of sickly green.
Madison finally snapped out of her shock and found her voice.
“You’ve always been jealous of me,” she said, voice shaking. “You couldn’t stand that I finally had something big, something fancy, something… special, and you’ve been waiting to ruin it. This is my night, Kinsley. How dare you humiliate me like this in front of everyone?”
I let her talk. Let her throw every accusation she had stored since childhood. It poured out of her in one trembling, mascara-streaked rush—old resentments, imagined slights, moments where she’d decided I was less.
When she finally ran out of words, I held up the folder from David.
“The Ashfords’ check bounced,” I said, simple and clear. “There weren’t enough funds in their account to cover this party. In fact, according to public records, there isn’t enough in any of their accounts to cover much of anything.”
I turned toward the closest screen.
“Three mortgages on the family estate in Connecticut. Investment accounts liquidated two years ago. Multiple liens. And around fifteen maxed-out credit cards across the family. All public information. Anyone can look it up.”
I tapped my phone again and the relevant documents appeared on the screens—blurred enough that private numbers weren’t shown, but clear enough for the story to be understood. Property records. Court dates. Case numbers.
“You weren’t their equal in this relationship,” I said to Madison. “You were their solution.”
I shifted my gaze to Mrs. Ashford.
“You planned to use my sister for money you thought she had. Money you thought I had. You hired someone to alter a recording to make her sound like the villain and you were going to play it in my ballroom, in my hotel, in my city, to destroy her reputation and force Brett to walk away.”
I looked back at Madison. Her shoulders were shaking.
“They’ve been researching us,” I said. “Mrs. Ashford hired a private investigator. I have the invoice. It’s charged to a card that’s already over its limit.”
The room had gone past shocked into something else—quiet, sharp attention. People weren’t whispering anymore. They were watching, waiting to see where this would land.
“Now,” I said, letting my voice carry, “let’s talk about the bill.”
A few people actually flinched.
“Tonight’s event totals forty-seven thousand dollars,” I continued. “Not including gratuity. Since the Ashfords can’t pay, and since this is technically their son’s engagement party, I have two choices.”
I held up two fingers.
“One, I call the police and report theft of services. Two, the Ashfords leave now, quietly, and I absorb the cost as a wedding gift to my sister.”
I looked at Brett.
“Assuming,” I added, “there is still going to be a wedding.”
For the first time that night, he really looked at me—not like a server, not like “the sister,” but like a person standing between his old life and whatever came next. His eyes were wet.
“I didn’t know about the recording,” he said, voice rough. “I knew my parents were struggling, but… I thought they were dealing with it. Selling the house. Downsizing. I didn’t know they were trying to hurt Madison. Or you.”
He turned to Madison.
“If you want to call this off,” he said quietly, “I’ll understand. I’ll pay back whatever I can. I’ll get a job and I’ll—”
Madison’s hand went to his arm.
“Your parents are terrible,” she said bluntly. “Like, spectacularly terrible. But you… you’re not them.”
She looked at me again. This time, she really saw me.
“You own this place,” she whispered. “All of them. All these hotels. And I thought your ‘online thing’ was just… some little hobby.”
“My ‘online thing’ was the platform I built to manage hotel bookings,” I said. “It did well. Well enough that I bought one hotel. Then another. Then this chain. I tried to tell you, Maddie. You changed the subject every time I brought up work.”
Behind her, Mrs. Ashford grabbed her husband’s arm.
“This is absurd,” she said, voice thin now. “We don’t have to listen to this. We are leaving. Brett, come with us.”
“No,” he said quietly.
She blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“No,” he repeated. “I’m not going with you. Not after this.”
I took one step closer.
“Before you go,” I said to Mrs. Ashford, “a quick note. The man you bribed? The one with the USB? He works for me. Security. We have your entire conversation on tape, including the part where you discussed ruining the party to pressure Brett into ending the engagement.”
She went pale beneath the makeup.
“If you try to twist this story,” I added, “or spread rumors about my sister or our family, I will release that footage to every person you’ve ever tried to impress. And I will do it legally, carefully, and with impeccable documentation. Because that’s the kind of woman I am.”
Her mouth opened and closed. No sound came out.
She turned, grabbed her husband’s arm, and practically dragged him toward the exit. Chase hurried after them, avoiding every eye he could. At the door, the same security guard who had redirected me at the start of the night stood frozen.
I met his gaze.
Realization dawned in his eyes like a slow sunrise.
He swallowed.
“Ma’am,” he stammered, “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Next time, look at people’s faces before you decide which door they belong at.”
He nodded so hard I thought his head might come loose.
Guests began to drift toward the exits. When money and status evaporate in a room like this, people suddenly remember babysitters and early meetings. The ballroom emptied faster than any event I’d ever watched on those cameras.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
