THE UNDERESTIMATED BILLIONAIRE TYCOON

This is Ridiculous!

Mrs. Wellington touched Madam Mary's arm. "Mary, maybe we should just—"

"Just what?" Madam Mary was still riding high on victory, cheeks flushed with triumph. "Let them disrespect me? Absolutely not. Did you see how that little tramp talked to me? The audacity."

"I know, but maybe we should focus on why we're here," Mrs. Patterson said carefully. "You were going to show us the apartment Carter bought?"

Madam Mary's expression shifted immediately, anger melting into pride. "Oh, you're right. Why am I wasting energy on those two losers when I have something so much better to show off?" She pulled a sleek black key card from her purse, held it up like a trophy. "Ladies, prepare to be amazed."

They approached the penthouse door—the same one Blake and Emma had just exited.

"Now, I told Carter not to go overboard," Madam Mary said, her voice taking on that false modesty that made Mrs. Wellington's smile tighten. "I said, 'Carter, dear, Lillian isn't the type to care about material things. Just get something modest, enough space for the two of you.' You know, something reasonable."

"And what did he say?" Mrs. Patterson asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer would irritate her.

"He said, 'Mother Mary—that's what he calls me, can you believe it?—Mother Mary, I want you to move in too. I want to take care of you the way you deserve.'" Madam Mary pressed a hand to her chest, eyes glistening with performative emotion. "Can you imagine? He insisted on getting a place big enough for all three of us. Said family should stay together."

Mrs. Wellington and Mrs. Patterson exchanged a glance that Madam Mary didn't catch.

"How thoughtful," Mrs. Wellington said flatly.

"He's so filial," Madam Mary continued, swiping the key card against the reader. "Unlike some people who shall remain nameless. Blake never once offered to take care of me. Never offered to help with anything. Just sat around the house like a piece of furniture, expecting my daughter to support him forever."

The lock didn't click.

Madam Mary frowned, swiped again. Nothing.

"These electronic systems can be finicky," Mrs. Patterson offered.

"It's brand new," Madam Mary said, voice tight with embarrassment. She swiped a third time, pressing the card firmly against the reader. The light stayed red. "I don't understand. Carter gave me this yesterday. He said it was programmed and ready."

Mrs. Wellington shifted her weight. "Maybe you need to—"

"I know how to use a key card, Patricia." Madam Mary swiped again. And again. The red light blinked at her like a mocking eye. Heat crept up her neck. This was supposed to be her moment. Her chance to show these women that her daughter had finally found someone worthy.

"Perhaps we should come back another time," Mrs. Wellington suggested, already turning toward the elevator.

"No." Madam Mary's voice came out sharp. "No, it's just a technical issue. These things happen with new systems." She swiped the card again, this time jamming it against the reader with force.

The panel beeped. Then beeped again. Then emitted a sound like a digital scream.

Red lights exploded along the hallway ceiling.

A siren wailed to life—not the polite chirp of a door alarm but a full-scale security breach alert that made Madam Mary's teeth ache. The sound bounced off marble walls, amplified itself into something apocalyptic.

"Oh my God," Mrs. Patterson said, hands flying to her ears. "What did you do?"

"I didn't—I just—" Madam Mary stared at the key card like it had betrayed her. The siren kept screaming. Doors up and down the hallway started opening, confused residents peering out to see what catastrophe warranted this level of noise.

"We should go," Mrs. Wellington said, already backing toward the elevator.

"Wait, it's just a mistake—" Madam Mary started, but the elevator doors opened and six security guards poured out, moving with the kind of speed that suggested they dealt with actual threats, not embarrassed women with faulty key cards.

"Step away from the door!" The lead guard was built like a linebacker, hand hovering near the baton on his hip. "Hands where we can see them!"

"There's been a misunderstanding," Madam Mary said, forcing her voice to sound calm, authoritative. "I'm Mary Wellington—well, Mary Patterson—no, I'm—" She took a breath, tried again. "My son-in-law owns this apartment. Carter Davidson. He gave me the key card. This is just a technical malfunction."

The guard's expression didn't change. "Step away from the door. Now."

Mrs. Wellington was already halfway down the hallway, Mrs. Patterson scrambling after her. Neither looked back.

"Patricia! Jennifer! Where are you going?" Madam Mary's voice climbed an octave. "Tell them! Tell them I'm not—"

Two more guards appeared from the stairwell, cutting off her friends' escape route. Mrs. Wellington and Mrs. Patterson froze, hands raised like they were being robbed.

"All three of you, against the wall," the lead guard ordered. "Hands behind your head."

"This is ridiculous!" Madam Mary's face burned. More doors were opening. More faces watching. "I'm not some criminal! Do you know who my daughter is? Do you know who Carter Davidson is?"

"Ma'am, I need you to comply." The guard's hand moved to his baton. Behind him, another guard was speaking rapidly into his radio, words like "attempted breach" and "possible break-in" crackling through the static.

The siren kept screaming.

Madam Mary looked at Mrs. Wellington and Mrs. Patterson—both pressed against the wall, hands behind their heads, faces pale with humiliation. She looked at the growing crowd of residents filming on their phones. She looked at the guards surrounding her like she was dangerous.

"You don't understand," she said, hating how her voice shook. "My son-in-law bought this apartment. He gave me the key card. I was just trying to show my friends—"

"Down on the ground," the guard said. "Hands behind your head. I won't ask again."

"I will not squat on the floor like some—"

The guard pulled his baton. Not threatening, just ready. The message was clear.

Madam Mary's knees buckled. She sank down, slowly, joints creaking, feeling every one of her sixty-three years. The marble floor was cold through her designer pants. Mrs. Wellington was already on the ground beside her, tears running down her face. Mrs. Patterson was hyperventilating.

"There's been a mistake," Madam Mary whispered, but the words were swallowed by the siren and the shuffling feet of guards and the clicking cameras of strangers who would post this online, who would share it, who would turn her humiliation into entertainment.