"You’re pretty, but pretty won’t cross class," Katelyn says, stepping forward with a checked envelope in hand. She smells like salon and tapped shoes. Her smile is camera-ready and sharp. She holds the envelope like a prop. "I brought something for you," she adds. "For your trouble taking care of Vincent." Vincent stands by the doorway, his jacket on, his suitcase half-zipped on the floor. He watches Katelyn with a look Marina can’t read. His palm presses once against the suitcase handle. He doesn't move. Marina keeps her hands in her pockets. She keeps her voice even. "You mean a thank-you?" Katelyn laughs. "This is not a 'thank-you.' Think of it as compensation. For lost time, for the photos, for—" She flicks her fingers, dismissive. "For the publicity. Beach Holdings prefers manageable stories." Vincent steps forward, slow. "Katelyn, you don't have to make a scene." Katelyn turns like she's delivering a line. "I don't want a scene. I want a clean ending. I want what was promised." Marina's mouth presses thin. "What was promised?" Katelyn glances at the envelope, then at Vincent. "A return. Stability. The right engagement. The Beach name has a schedule." She opens the envelope on the coffee table. The check slips out. The logo along the top is small, embossed, unmistakable: Beach Holdings. Marina looks at the numbers. Her first thought is how many zeros she doesn't have. Her second thought is the