"Don't make a scene," Orlando said, stepping into the private room. "Too late," Bartolome sang, raising his glass. "The show's already started." "Drop her," June said. "Now." "She's the entertainment," a man near the bar said, smirking. "You're drunk," June told him. "Back off." "Or maybe she's bought," Bartolome said, louder. "Orlando must've got bored with polished fiancés and wanted live circus." "Shut up," Laura whispered, tears on her cheeks. She kept her voice low because the cameras near the ceiling liked low voices—those cameras were clients of gossip columns. "Move," one of Bartolome's friends barked, and two men pulled Laura by the arms toward the stage where an insult ritual began: heels on the floor, a forced prop microphone, a hostess turned spectacle. "Take your hands off her," June said, pushing into the crowd. "What's your business?" Bartolome asked, grinning wide. "You her guardian? Her brother?" "Neither," June said. "I'm her cousin. And you're going to pay for this." "Pay?" Bartolome laughed. "Make us pay then. Call your big patron, sweetheart." June's jaw tightened. She glanced at Cruz. He handed her his phone, eyes on Orlando. "What's that?" June asked. "Audio," Cruz said. "Bartolome bragging to his crew that he paid the bar manager to 'bring out' a girl for laughs tonight. He names the amount. He names the account." "Play it," June said. Cruz hit the speaker. Bartolome stopped smiling halfway through his sentence