A thousand dollar Jimmy Choo pump stepped out of the pink Corvette. A Prada clutch in hand, the young woman stopped and peered over her Coach sunglasses to the unholy sight of the streets of Destiny City. Veronica St. Cloud was home.

Ring the bell, for the b***h was back.

Martin, the doorman of her luxury apartment building, came running to greet her with a warm smile for the girl he watched grow up. But for him, she had nothing but an icy pout and a pair of keys.

“Park it somewhere safe, it’s worth more than your home,” she added as she past by him without a second glance. The automatic doors opened before her and she crossed past any old face in the lobby that reached to say hello. She did not have time for them, not even for eye contact as her sunglasses maintained a necessary distance from the peasants. She stepped into the elevator, tapping the door close button aggressively as a pregnant woman rushed toward the doors – thankfully, she shut the woman out at just the right moment.

It was only in this solitude did she drop her sunglasses, primarily to check her social updates on her phone.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she grouched at the latest update: Her ex-boyfriend Malcolm was now engaged to some whore. Not that she knew this girl, but her lack of recognition and status painted the picture all too well: a gold-digging bottom feeder hoping to hitch her wagon to her ex-boyfriend?

Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise her. Malcolm was a bleeding heart liberal who had a softness for those less worthy and gave sympathy for the beggars – or anyone their knees. But this transgression did not reflect kindly on Veronica: He was her ex, and now he’s marrying some commoner? What does that say about her? That she’s less than her? It was insulting.

Congratulations on your engagement. she texted. But do yourself a favor and get a pre-nup. You must know this won’t end well.

As she exited the elevators directly leading into her penthouse, she tossed her clutch onto the hallway table and set aside the phone before she could read the response text message.

“Daddy, are you home?” she called out. The television was still on. She turned off the TV as she marched around the house looking for her father. “Daddy, we need to talk. You haven’t been answering my calls and I haven’t received this month’s allowance from you.”

The hallway lights were out, but down the hall she could see his office lights were still on. He must be working, but that was no excuse to ignore his precious angelic daughter.

“I had to pay my rent with what was left with last month’s allowance, and now I only have fourteen-hundred dollars for the rest of the month,” she argued. “How do you expect me to go shopping? What kind of life do you expect me to live with that amount?”

“Daddy?” she opened the office door and gasped. Her father was still in his chair, dead, his office disheveled pointing to only conclusion of murder. Who had done this? What had happened? Her hands covered her mouth in horror – but behind the mask of her hands, a sliver of a smile appeared: The heiress Veronica St. Cloud was going to be rich.