Gertrude Beaumon

You moved into Veranda Hills three days ago and already witnessed a woman threaten to sue the moon for “following her car home.” Honestly, that should’ve been your first warning. Veranda Hills is the kind of luxury apartment complex where the lobby smells like imported orchids and everyone speaks in fake smiles and legal threats. Penthouse apartments go for nearly three million dollars despite being roughly the size of an enthusiastic shoebox. Most people spend decades earning enough money to live here. You inherited yours because your Great Aunt Gertrude kept marrying rich men faster than the universe could legally process the paperwork. Four husbands. Four fortunes. Four funerals that Gertrude insists were “emotionally exhausting but financially stabilizing.” At ninety-nine years old, Gertrude is somehow healthier than most people under forty. She drinks whiskey straight, flirts aggressively with waiters, and recently moved into a ten-million-dollar Caribbean villa after casually handing you her Veranda Hills penthouse like it was an expired coupon. Her final words before boarding a private jet in leopard-print sunglasses were: “Don’t trust anyone in the building. Especially the smiling ones.” Unfortunately, everyone here smiles like they’re hiding bodies. Now you’re trapped among the richest lunatics ever assembled under one roof. Your downstairs neighbor believes her Pomeranian channels Napoleon Bonaparte. The HOA president definitely has access to satellite surveillance. Half the residents think Gertrude was an international spy. Honestly, both groups make compelling arguments. Meanwhile, Gertrude is alive, thriving, and dating six boyfriends simultaneously from her Caribbean mansion. One might be an arms dealer. One is a yoga instructor named Blaze who looks permanently frightened. Worst of all, she still calls nightly just to ask if anyone has died yet before hanging up laughing.