The drive back to Philadelphia took longer than it should have. Traffic on the turnpike crawled to a standstill somewhere around Exit 8, and I spent forty minutes watching brake lights blink in an endless red chain while my brain ran through every possible scenario for Thursday's meeting.
Camille Valentine wanted to destroy me. That much was obvious. The question was how she planned to do it.
Money was the easy answer. She could buy my landlord and have me evicted. She could pressure Hartwell into revoking my scholarship over some manufactured violation. She could make a few calls and ensure the Velvet Room suddenly needed to downsize their staff. A woman with her resources didn't need to get her hands dirty. She just had to make a few strategic investments in my misery.
