Rita had finally reached her breaking point. She'd endured the lies, the charade of wealth, and that wretched little dog, Scooter, for far too long. So, she did it. She walked away from it all.

She left Carlo.

She abandoned the gilded cage she had called life—her garden club, her meticulous social web, her hollow comforts. But don't be naive—Rita may have left her life behind, but she didn’t leave empty-handed. Naturally, she took just enough money to keep her afloat. Well, perhaps more than "enough."

What did you think? That Rita Castillo would vanish into the night with nothing? Please.

The escape was as calculated as it was impulsive. Midnight struck; Carlo lay unconscious, reeking of whiskey and regret. She didn’t bother with goodbyes—not to her so-called friends, not even to herself.

By dawn, she'd checked into a four-star hotel just outside Los Angeles. It wasn’t the Ritz, but for now, it would suffice. Besides, she needed discretion, not opulence.

In her room, surrounded by unfamiliar elegance, Rita unpacked with a hollow detachment. Sleep? Impossible. Her nerves danced too wildly. Instead, she slipped into a sleek bathing suit, tossed on a cover-up, and grabbed a towel. A late-night soak in the hotel’s hot tub might bring her some semblance of calm.

When she arrived, the pool area was silent, bathed in soft, artificial light. The bubbling water called to her, a promise of fleeting reprieve. But just as her perfectly manicured hand reached for the gate—

“Ma’am, I’m afraid the hot tub is closed,” a woman voice broke the stillness.

Rita turned her head, gaze cutting like a diamond. A hotel worker, perhaps housekeeping, perhaps someone less relevant, stood there. Rita didn’t bother deciphering her role—she wasn’t interested.

“Oh, of course it’s closed. Just my luck…” she drawled, voice dripping in equal parts sarcasm and charm, her lips curling into a sly smile.