The Paradise Princesses.
That's what they called themselves—the daughters of Paradise's elite, the crème de la crème of generational wealth and inherited power. A private group chat that had existed since the founding members were fourteen, passed down through social generations like a crown dipped in venom and wrapped in trust funds.
Membership wasn't bought. It was bestowed. You didn't apply to be a Paradise Princess—you were born into it, or you were nothing. A genetic lottery win, complete with the consolation prize of crippling expectations and daddy issues you could ski down.
The rules were simple: no screenshots, no leaks, no boys, no exceptions. What happened in the chat stayed in the chat, protected by the kind of mutually assured destruction that only worked when everyone had equally devastating secrets to hide—like nuclear warheads pointed at each other's McMansions.
