My mother-in-law hijacked my elite VIP account to fly her friends to the Maldives, bragging, “My brilliant son will cover the $50K bill.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t even look surprised. I just took a slow sip of wine… Then I leaned in and whispered one sentence. And suddenly… she wasn’t smiling anymore.

I didn’t call the police. Not yet. I picked up my phone, opened the FaceTime app, and dialed the Apple ID connected to that stolen iPad. I let it ring, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist showing off, completely unaware that she had just triggered a catastrophic structural collapse of her own life.

The FaceTime call connected on the fifth ring.

The screen flickered, adjusting to the blinding, equatorial sunlight, before resolving into a picture of absolute, sickening opulence. Beatrice was lounging on a plush white daybed suspended over water so impossibly blue it looked radioactive. She was flanked by three of her most sycophantic, heavily-botoxed country club friends. They were all holding crystal flutes of champagne, wearing oversized designer sunglasses they couldn’t afford.

“Well, well,” Beatrice drawled, her voice dripping with that familiar, aristocratic condescension. She held the iPad up, framing the endless ocean behind her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this interruption, Elena? Shouldn’t you be in a hard hat somewhere, pouring cement?”

Her friends tittered, a chorus of vapid, enabling laughter.