Do you know who I am?

We were blasting music, windows down, singing along, when a stray dog suddenly ran across the road. I swerved hard to the right and lost control. I then heard a loud crash as the Bugatti rammed the curb and hit a light pole.

“Are you alright?” I asked Isabelle.

“Oh my god! I think my nose is broken!” she screamed.

The thought of her perfect face being damaged really freaked her out.

A patrolling officer, whose sedan had been parked down the street, pulled up behind us. He came to my side of the car. I struggled a bit to keep my posture but started to approach him, trying to sound controlled.

“My friend is hurt and needs a hospital. Can you please call an ambulance?” I asked the officer politely.

“Ma’am, please step away from the car and stay off the road,” he replied calmly.

“I am not in the road, you moron! Did you not hear me say I need an ambulance? A large animal ran into the street and caused me to swerve into this pole.”

“I understand, ma’am. I'll radio for an ambulance immediately to assist your friend, but in the meantime, I need to conduct a thorough investigation. Can you please provide your license, registration, and insurance?”

I proceeded to hand him the documentation, all of which was under my father's corporate accounts. While he ran the information, he asked a few questions.

“Where were you coming from tonight, ma’am?”

“The Silver Moon Gala,” I replied, trying to imply my importance.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asked.

Shit. I knew I was well over the legal limit, so I tried to deflect.

“I just told you I swerved out for an animal crossing the road.”

“That is not what I asked you.”

“Then no, I have not been drinking,” I lied, trying to look him dead in the eye.

“Are you willing to take a field sobriety test to confirm you’re able to drive?”

Knowing I would fail, I answered:

“No, and honestly, I do not appreciate you harassing me like this!”

“If you refuse to cooperate, I will have to proceed based on the strong odour of alcohol coming from your breath and the visible damage to this vehicle, which are grounds for your arrest.”

“What? This is outrageous! Do you know who I am? I am Eloise Thorne, daughter of Harrison Thorne!”

“Well, Eloise Thorne, you are hereby under arrest for driving under the influence,” he said firmly, grabbing my arms and pulling them behind my back.

I did not go quietly. I started to scream, kick, and yell every threat I could think of until he shoved me to the ground and cuffed my hands tightly. He then proceeded to place me in the back of his patrol car.

They drove me to the precinct, where I was processed, fingerprinted, and finally held in a concrete cell. Hours later, still wearing what was left of my expensive gown, I banged on the bars.

“Did you call my dad?” I demanded, furious that no one had shown up.

A woman police officer approached the cell.

“Ma’am, we called your father. He said he wasn't going to post your bail at the moment. You'll have to stay the night.”

What? Was my dad going to leave me here? How could he do this to me, his only daughter and the heir to his fortune? What did I do to deserve this?

It was at that moment, while sitting in a cold, smelly cell, that my privileged world officially collapsed.

The hours I spent in the holding cell were unbearable. Sleeping was a joke. I couldn't get comfortable on the thin, scratchy mattress. Every time my eyes closed, the lights or the drunk outburst from another cell woke me up. I smelled like sweat and metal. It was the smell of a night gone wrong. By the time the guard finally called my name in the early morning hours, I was a wreck. My mascara was smeared, my hair was matted, and I had a terrible headache.

Stepping out into the lobby felt like emerging from a cave. Waiting outside was not my father, but his freshly polished, black car. Edward, the family driver, stood beside it, holding the door open with his usual blank expression. There was still no sign of my father.

"Take me home, Edward," I demanded, my voice raw and filled with exhaustion as I got in.

Edward met my eyes in the rear-view mirror, and his expression was unreadable.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I have been ordered by your father to take you directly to his office."

"I cannot go there looking like this, you idiot! I smell like I climbed out of a trash can, and I haven't slept at all! Take me home now!" I shouted, the volume of my voice startling even myself.

"I apologize, ma'am, but my orders were very clear. I must take you to your father's office," he persisted. His calm manners were only fueling my rage.

"You know what? Fine. Take me to him, then," I answered, sinking back against the leather seat.

"I need to ask him where the hell he was last night, while I was being treated like a street criminal and thrown in jail! I would love to hear his pathetic excuse for not getting me out," I ranted, the words directed more at the window than at Edward.

"If I may, madam," Edward interjected quietly, his eyes meeting mine again in the mirror.

"You might want to check your social media before attacking your father."

I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaking as I unlocked it. Edward's warning instantly made sense. Sure enough, my entire feed was flooded. Video after video showed my meltdown.

There was the clip of me throwing a fit, followed by the sight of a police officer tackling me to the ground and snapping the cuffs on. Another video captured my earlier exit from the party. Speeding away from the gala and then, moments later, leaping off the balcony's edge into the pool, narrowly missing the concrete side.

The comments and headline captions, however, were a devastating lineup of public shame:

"Thorne Heiress Has Meltdown”

“Pool Dive Gone Wrong!"

"Watch: Socialite's Drunken Arrest Goes Viral"

"From Gala Glamour to Jail Garbage: The Heiress's Reckless Night"

"New Low: The Thorne Name Dragged Through the Mud"

I sat in silence, shocked, watching the clips loop, the sick feeling of comprehension settling in my stomach. I finally understood why my father hadn't raced to my rescue. He wasn't absent. He was likely dealing with a massive PR catastrophe. One I caused!

As we stopped outside the towering building, I felt nothing but shame, having to climb out looking like something a cat threw up and having to face my dad in that condition.