The Wolfpack's New Receptionist

The Fall

The price of entry for the Silver Moon Gala was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a figure that would buy a house in parts of the world I chose to ignore. To me, it was just the cost of a Tuesday.

"Don't breathe," Laurent hissed, kneeling at my feet as his fingers fluttered over the midnight-blue velvet of my custom DesChamps dress.

Five makeup artists, three hairstylists, and a swarm of assistants had flooded my penthouse for hours just to get this look right.

"I have to breathe, Laurent. I’m human," I snapped, checking my reflection in the mirror.

My blonde hair was sculpted into waves of frozen silk, my smoky eyes predatory against pale skin.

But as I turned too quickly toward the private elevator, the new maid, Maria, planted her cheap shoe firmly on my three-foot train.

“Dammit! You ripped it!” The scream tore out of me before I could filter it.

The room went instantly silent. Maria’s face drained of color, her eyes wide and watery.

“I—I am so sorry, Miss Thorne, I didn't see—”

“You’re so fired,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly hiss.

“Get out. Before I have security escort you to the curb.”

I watched her walk away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. For a heartbeat, guilt rose up in my chest, a reminder that she probably needed this job to pay for something boring like rent. But I smothered it instantly. In my world, incompetence was the only unforgivable sin.

“Cut it,” I commanded Laurent, waving a dismissive hand.

“Make it look intentional.”

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the black sedan at the Plaza. The paparazzi were flashing blinding white lights and screaming names over one another. I didn't smile; smiles were for influencers. I gave them the Thorne Stare, dreamy, bored, and untouchable.

The Gala's theme was "Future Elegance." I delivered my scripted speech about "preserving the Everglades," a swamp I’d never visited, and felt the familiar, intoxicating rush of a thousand eyes fixed on me.

When I stepped down, the applause melted into the bass of the VIP lounge. I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray, swallowing the cold liquid in a single burn. It did nothing to scratch the itch under my skin. The stage adrenaline was already fading, leaving behind a space that champagne couldn't touch.

"Looking for a real rush, Eloise?"

Jaxson, a billionaire playboy, stepped out of the strobe-lit shadows, tall and lean in a blue tux that clung to his frame. He had a sharp jawline, cold gray eyes that looked at everything like it was a price tag, and that permanent smirk.

"Let's see how long you last before you break."

I gripped the foil tightly in my fist, the chemical edge of the night finally sinking its teeth in. I didn't want elegance. I wanted fire.

We slipped away behind to the private bathroom and emerged breathless and thoroughly disheveled, my lipstick smeared and his collar crooked.

“Bugatti. Now,” I told my valet, who immediately rushed to retrieve the car I had delivered that morning as part of my exit plan.

I tore through the velvet ropes of the parking garage with Isabelle Du Pont filming our escape for her millions of followers, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy as we hit the open street. We were blasting music, windows down, singing along at the top of our lungs, when a stray dog suddenly bolted across the road. I swerved hard to the right and lost control.

I heard a loud crash as the Bugatti rammed the concrete curb and smashed head-on into a light pole.

“Are you alright?” I asked Isabelle, shaking off the daze.

“Oh my god! I think my nose is broken!” she screamed, clutching her face.

The thought of her perfect features being damaged clearly terrified her far more than the totaled car.

A patrolling officer walked up to my side of the car. I straightened my posture, trying to mask the adrenaline and project absolute authority.

“My friend is hurt and needs a hospital. Can you please call an ambulance?” I asked, keeping my voice tightly controlled.

“Ma’am, please step away from the car and stay off the road,” he replied calmly.

“I am not in the road, you moron! Did you not hear me say I need an ambulance? An animal ran into the street and caused this.”

“I understand, ma’am, but I need your license, registration, and insurance.”

When I handed him the corporate documents, he asked where we were coming from.

“The Silver Moon Gala,” I replied, assuming my name would make him back down.

When he asked if I had been drinking, I tried to lie my way out of it, but refusing the field sobriety test sealed my fate.

“Do you know who I am? I am Eloise Thorne, daughter of Harrison Thorne!” I shrieked.

“Well, Eloise Thorne, you are under arrest for driving under the influence,” he said firmly, grabbing my arms.

I did not go quietly. I kicked and screamed every threat I could think of until he shoved me to the ground, cuffed my hands tightly, and shoved me into the cruiser.

Hours later, still wearing the ruined remnants of my designer gown in a cold concrete holding cell, I banged furiously on the bars.

“Did you call my dad?” I demanded of the guard.

A female officer approached the cell.

“Ma’am, we called your father. He said he wasn't going to post your bail tonight. You'll have to stay.”

The hours in the holding cell were pure torture. Sleeping on the scratchy mattress was impossible, and every time I closed my eyes, a drunk outburst from down the hall woke me up. I smelled like sweat, the undeniable scent of my life spiraling out of control.

By morning, I was a complete wreck. Stepping out into the precinct lobby, there was no sign of my father, only his polished black car and Edward, the family driver, holding the door open.

"Take me home, Edward," I demanded, exhausted.

Edward met my eyes in the rear-view mirror, his expression entirely unreadable.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I have been ordered by your father to take you directly to his office."

"I cannot go there looking like this! Take me home now!" I shouted.

"If I may, madam," Edward interjected quietly, "you might want to check your social media before attacking your father."

I unlocked my phone. My entire feed was flooded. Video after video showed my meltdown: me screaming at the officer and the arrest. The headlines were a devastating lineup of public shame:

"Thorne Heiress Has Meltdown,"

"Socialite's Drunken Arrest Goes Viral,"

"From Gala Glamour to Jail Garbage."

The sick realization settled in my stomach. My father hadn't abandoned me out of cruelty; he was handling a massive corporate PR disaster, one I had entirely created. As Edward stopped outside the towering Thorne building, a heavy knot of dread gripped my chest. I was about to face the music.