The security guard looked at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock. His eyes swept from my faded jeans to my old college sweatshirt, lingering on the frayed cuffs like they were personally offensive. I could practically see him calculating my net worth at about twelve dollars and some pocket lint.
Behind him, under the glass awning of the Grand Meridian Hotel in downtown Chicago, the revolving doors spun a steady stream of tuxedos, sequins, and designer shoes. Cold air rolled in off the river, carrying the smell of city and money. He shifted his weight, stepping right into my path with all the authority of someone who’d been doing this job for exactly three days.
“Ma’am, deliveries use the side entrance,” he said, jerking his chin toward the alley. “I’m here for the Wong–Ashford engagement party,” I replied. The smirk that crossed his face could have curdled milk.
He actually laughed, short and disbelieving, then pointed his thick finger toward the side of the building where a small metal sign read: SERVICE ENTRANCE. Apparently, “the help” needed to use the appropriate door. My name is Kinsley Wong.
I’m thirty-two years old. And at that moment, standing in my deliberately casual clothes, I probably looked like I’d gotten lost on my way to deliver takeout. The irony wasn’t lost on me, considering what I actually did for a living, but I kept my mouth shut.
Sometimes the best revenge is served in courses, like a five-star tasting menu. Before I continue, please hit that like button and let me know in the comments where you’re listening from and what time it is there. Thank you—it really helps.
Two weeks earlier, my sister Madison had called me with the enthusiasm of someone inviting you to her own execution. “I need you here, okay?” she’d said, breathless, the faint hum of New York traffic buzzing in the background. “The Ashfords are… very particular.
Please try to look presentable for once.”
She’d done the little air quotes around “presentable.” I didn’t have to see her to know. I could hear them in her voice. She’d also mentioned—so casually it was practically a performance—that maybe I shouldn’t talk too much about my little “online business thing” because the Ashfords were old money, and they “wouldn’t really understand internet jobs.”
Sure.
