Chapter 8 - Beggars in the Rain
A month had passed since Grant’s arrest.
Autumn in Washington had turned cold and gray, the golden leaves stripped from the trees by a sharp northern wind. Outside the Hartwell estate, rain poured from the darkened sky, drumming steadily against the expansive French windows of the ground-floor library.
I was sitting by the roaring stone fireplace, reviewing the revised community park blueprints for the new harbor, when our head of security entered the room quietly.
“Miss Hartwell,” he said respectfully. “There is a woman at the outer gate. She has been standing in the rain for over an hour. She refuses to leave until she speaks with you.”
I looked up from my drafts. “Celeste.”
“Yes, ma'am. Should I have the local police remove her?”
I took a slow sip of my hot tea, feeling the warmth spread through my hands. “No. Bring her to the covered terrace. I’ll speak to her there.”
When I stepped out onto the marble terrace, Celeste Whitmore looked unrecognizable.
Her once-perfect golden hair was soaked and clinging to her gaunt face. Her designer coat was muddy at the hem, and she wore no jewelry—the creditors had seized every single diamond, pearl, and gold bracelet to pay off Grant’s bankruptcy liabilities. She was shivering violently, her lips blue from the cold.
When she saw me, her knees gave out, and she sank directly onto the wet stone tiles.
“Evelyn,” she croaked, her voice cracked and stripped of all its former haughty venom. “Please... you have to help us.”
I stood ten feet away, wrapped in a warm cashmere sweater, looking down at the woman who had struck me across the face in front of hundreds of people.
“Stand up, Celeste,” I said quietly. “You look pathetic.”
“They took everything, Evelyn!” she wept, clasping her trembling hands together as if praying to an idol. “They evicted me from the townhome yesterday. The bank took the cars, the family portraits... even my grandmother’s silver tea set. I have nowhere to go! My sister won't take my calls. My friends won't open their doors to me!”
“You mean the same friends you spent twenty years judging and belittling?” I asked coolly.
“I was wrong!” she cried, tears carving clean streaks through the makeup running down her face. “I didn't know who you were! If I had known you were Margot Hartwell’s daughter, I would have treated you like royalty! I would have protected you! I swear it on my life!”
A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips.
“And that, Celeste, is why you deserve everything that has happened to you.”
Celeste blinked, shivering, confused by my words.
“You think human dignity is something you only grant to people with money,” I said, stepping closer so she could hear every syllable clearly over the falling rain. “You treated me like garbage not because of who I was, but because of who *you* were. You abused me because you thought I had no power to fight back. You showed me your true soul when you thought there were no consequences.”
“Please,” she begged, reaching for the hem of my trousers with muddy fingers. “Just give me an allowance. A small apartment. Anything. Grant is facing ten years in prison! His bail hearing is next week, and we don't have a single penny for an attorney!”
I stepped back, out of her reach.
“Grant made his choices. He committed fraud, he stole my life’s work, and he discarded me like trash. He will serve every single day of his sentence.”
I turned toward the glass doors.
“Evelyn! You can't leave me out here!” she shrieked, her voice cracking in desperation. “I am your mother-in-law!”
“My divorce was finalized yesterday at four o’clock,” I replied, looking over my shoulder one last time. “You are nothing to me, Celeste. Just a stranger who taught me never to let anyone mistake my kindness for weakness.”
I nodded to the security guards. “Escort her off the property. If she returns, have her arrested for trespassing.”
May you like
As the guards lifted Celeste by her arms and dragged her wailing into the rain, I stepped back into the warmth of my home and closed the door firmly behind me.
***
