At my son's engagement celebration, his bride-to-be sprayed me with a garden hose in front of thirty onlookers and sneered: "Beggars don't belong at weddings here." I merely held my grocery bag tight to my chest, keeping my phone recording the whole time, waiting for the moment she realized who she was actually dealing with.

On Wednesday, my private security notified me that someone was causing a disturbance in the lobby of the Vance Global building.

I looked at the security feed on my monitor. It was Chloe. She was wearing a modest, plain black dress, her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, zero makeup. She was holding a bouquet of cheap gas-station flowers, weeping hysterically at the front desk, begging to see me. She was clearly hoping a paparazzi camera would catch her looking like a tragic, repentant victim.

I picked up the phone and called the front desk. "Send her up."

When the elevator doors opened, Chloe practically threw herself onto the carpet of my office.

"Mrs. Vance!" she sobbed, crawling toward my mahogany desk. "Please! My family is ruined! My father's company is collapsing! People are sending death threats to my phone! I am so, so sorry! I’ll do anything!"

I looked down at her. I didn't feel an ounce of pity.

"You aren't sorry you did it, Chloe," I said coldly. "You are sorry that the person you abused happened to have power. If I had truly been a homeless woman, you would be laughing about it with your friends right now at a country club."