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As the sirens wailed, the "Four Musketeers"—as they were known in school—were forced back into a tight, suffocating circle.

Only an hour ago, a body had plummeted from the balcony of a nearby penthouse. The scream was still ringing in Alma’s ears—a jagged sound that sliced through the laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. Now, the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers danced across her white marble walls.

As the police tape went up, Alma caught Falak’s eye across the lawn. For the first time in years, the "Queen" looked afraid. Alma realized that in a world of stilettos, everyone is walking on a thin, dangerous edge. One slip is all it takes. As the sirens wailed, the "Four Musketeers"—as they

, usually the rock of the group, was staring at her husband, Karim. The look between them wasn't one of grief; it was a silent pact of silence.

stood at the center, her face a mask of cold perfection. She straightened her silk dress, her eyes darting toward the balcony. She was the queen of this compound, and queens didn't let scandals ruin their reign. Now, the flashing red and blue lights of

was pacing, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knew too much about the arguments overheard in the powder room.

Alma looked down at her phone. A message from an unknown number glowed on the screen: “The past doesn’t stay buried in the garden, Alma. It’s sitting at your dinner table.” Alma realized that in a world of stilettos,

She realized then that the fall wasn't just about one person hitting the pavement. It was the beginning of their entire world collapsing. The secrets they had kept for twenty years—the fire, the lies, the betrayal—were no longer ghosts. They were the jury.