You notice it first.

The accent that slips when she’s angry. The way she dodges questions about old family friends. The fact that no one—no one—has ever actually been inside her penthouse.

Yet somehow, Isabella Sinclair has wedged herself perfectly into Serena’s circle, dripping in borrowed designer clothes and inherited confidence.

Everyone buys it.

Everyone except you.

“You don’t like her,” Serena says one afternoon, sunglasses perched on her head as you sit on the Met steps.

“I don’t trust her,” you correct.

Serena hums thoughtfully. “Interesting. Because neither do I.”

That’s how it starts.

Quiet conversations. Late-night texts. Comparing notes Serena pretends not to care about but clearly does. You dig through yearbooks, charity registries, society pages. Serena uses her connections—subtle calls, casual name-drops, doors opening just enough.

“She says her family summers in Monaco,” Serena says one night, scrolling through her phone. “My grandmother’s been there every year since the ’80s. Never heard the name.”