I never told my boyfriend’s snobbish parents that I owned the bank holding their massive debt. To them, I was just a “barista with no future.” At their yacht party, his mother pushed me toward the edge of the boat and sneered, “Service staff should stay below deck,” while his father laughed, “Don’t get the furniture wet, trash.” My boyfriend adjusted his sunglasses and didn’t move. Then, a siren blared across the water. A police boat pulled up alongside the yacht… and the Bank’s Chief Legal Officer stepped aboard with a megaphone, looking directly at me. “Madam President, the foreclosure papers are ready for your signature.” – usnews 0/2

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the Manhattan skyline. From up here, the cars looked like toys, the people like ants. It was a view that cost millions, but I earned it every day.

On the news ticker running across the flat-screen on the wall, a story flashed: Former Socialites Evicted from Historic Hamptons Estate following Bankruptcy Proceedings.

I watched the footage. It was shaky cell phone video. It showed Richard and Victoria loading bags into a rusted sedan. They looked older. Smaller. The arrogance had been stripped away, leaving only the bitter rind of reality.

They were reportedly staying in a two-bedroom apartment in Queens, arguing over who forgot to pay the electric bill.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t gloat. I just turned off the screen.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. But this wasn’t revenge. This was a correction. The market corrects itself when assets are overvalued. They had overvalued themselves, and I simply forced the market to acknowledge the truth.