Diana drapes herself across the resort’s velvet, certain opulence is her birthright, not a borrowed costume, snapping at servers for warmer bread and colder champagne, oblivious to the quiet, reverent glances staff cast toward Emily when she passes. The name on their paychecks—hers—became possible the day she followed the money trail hidden behind “scholarships” and “charitable foundations,” the ones that turned her father’s guilt into Dior gowns and oceanfront penthouses. Diana had scoffed, called her jealous, dramatic, ungrateful; the board had not. They’d frozen accounts, summoned auditors, and watched the empire rot from the inside out. Prosecutors carved their vacations around depositions; reporters dug up Christmas photos and charity galas, then sliced them into headlines. So when the key cards die and the spa tab vanishes, it happens under chandeliers and camera flashes, humiliation served in real time. Security moves in, polite but unyielding, and Diana’s protest curd… Continues…