Chapter 2 - The Manager's Ultimatum
Back at the luxury villa,
Betsy was reclining on a velvet chaise lounge,
swirling a glass of vintage champagne.
The house was quiet now,
the "peasants" finally gone,
and she felt a sense of supreme victory.
"Did you see the look on her face?"
Pamela asked,
adjusting her ring light as she prepared for a live stream.
"She actually thought she could bring those people into our circle."
"Money can't buy class,
Pammy,"
Betsy replied,
taking a slow sip of the expensive bubbles.
"Naomi might have a successful company,
but she will always be the daughter of a man who smells like sawdust."
She reached for her phone to call the private chef,
wondering why the kitchen was so silent.
Suddenly,
a sharp,
insistent knock echoed through the massive oak front door.
"That must be the massage therapists,"
Pamela squealed,
running to open the door with a wide,
rehearsed smile.
But instead of a therapist,
she was met with the cold,
professional gaze of Mr. Henderson,
the property manager.
He was flanked by two large men in navy security uniforms,
their expressions as hard as the mountain granite.
"Good afternoon,"
Mr. Henderson said,
his voice devoid of any warmth.
"I am here to inform you that the reservation for this property has been terminated."
Betsy stood up,
her champagne glass rattling against her saucer.
"Terminated?
Don't be ridiculous."
"My daughter-in-law paid for this,
and I am the primary guest."
Mr. Henderson pulled out a digital tablet,
showing her the cancellation notice.
"Actually,
Mrs. Miller,"
he said,
referring to Naomi,
"is the sole contract holder."
"She has revoked your access,
effective immediately."
"She has also requested that all services,
including the chef and the security detail,
be withdrawn."
Betsy’s face turned a mottled shade of red.
"You can't do this!
It’s nearly sunset!"
"Where are we supposed to go?"
Mr. Henderson didn't blink.
"That is not my concern,
ma'am."
"You have fifteen minutes to gather your belongings."
"If you are still on the premises after that time,
these gentlemen will assist you in leaving."
Pamela gasped,
the phone in her hand nearly slipping to the floor.
"But my followers...
I told them I was staying here all week!"
"Perhaps you can live-stream your departure,"
one of the security guards muttered,
his voice laced with barely hidden disgust.
Betsy tried to reach for her purse,
her hands shaking with a mixture of rage and burgeoning panic.
"I’ll just pay for it myself!"
she shouted,
pulling out a gold credit card.
"Charge it to this!"
Mr. Henderson took the card with a look of feigned politeness,
sliding it through his portable reader.
A moment later,
the machine emitted a sharp,
high-pitched beep.
"Declined,"
he said,
handing it back to her.
"It seems your credit limit has been drastically reduced,
ma'am."
"Or perhaps,"
he added,
"the authorized user was just removed."
The silence that followed was deafening,
May you like
broken only by the sound of the lake waves crashing against the dock,
indifferent to the drama unfolding in the foyer.
