Chapter 3 - Broken Champagne
The terrace did not immediately erupt; it dissolved.
The guests—people whose livelihoods depended on the delicate, gossamer web of social standing and corporate patronage—began to step backward, one by one, like actors retreating from a stage where the lighting rig had caught fire. Nobody wanted to be standing near Camille Laurent when the structural beams came down.
"Julian!" Camille’s voice was pitched higher now, shrill with panic that she was trying desperately to disguise as righteous indignation. "You're letting her talk to you like this? In front of the Van Der Bils? In front of your partners? Who does she think she is? The Morels are French old money, Julian! They don't control Wall Street! Your father has connections in Washington—"
"My father," Julian turned on her, his teeth bared in an expression of raw, unvarnished hatred that Camille had never seen on his handsome, compliant face, "owes Morel Maritime eighty-five million dollars on a subordinated mezzanine note due on the thirty-first."
Camille’s jaw dropped. "What?"
"The house," Julian said, his voice dropping to a harsh, ragged whisper that carried through the stunned silence of the patio. "The stables. The yacht in Antigua. The ring on your finger, Camille. None of it is paid for. It was all cross-collateralized against the European merger. If Sophie Morel walks away from this table, we are bankrupt by Friday."
He spun back toward Sophie, who was already halfway down the terrace stairs, walking toward the lead Maybach. The driver, an imposing man named Vance who had driven Sophie’s father before her, held the heavy passenger door open.
"Sophie! Please!" Julian lunged down the stairs, completely unconcerned with his polished leather shoes hitting the damp mud of the ruined lawn. "Let me explain! Camille has an anxiety disorder—she was startled! She didn't mean to push you, she just... she reacted poorly to a perceived intrusion! We can issue an immediate public apology. We’ll remove her from the foundation board! Camille, come down here and get on your knees!"
Camille stood at the top of the stairs, her face burning a mottled, ugly crimson. "I will *not* get on my knees for a—"
"Get down here!" Julian roared, the sound echoing across the dark surface of Lake Valmont.
Several guests had pulled out their phones. In the modern world, even among the ultra-wealthy, the instinct to capture the destruction of a peer is irresistible. Small, red recording lights blinked in the twilight like fireflies.
Sophie paused at the door of the car. She did not look back at Camille. She looked only at Julian, who had dropped to one knee in the wet loam, his trousers soaking through with the same cold mud that covered her shoes.
"Do you know why I chose this dress, Julian?" Sophie asked quietly, gesturing down at the cheap, drenched cotton of her catering uniform.
Julian swallowed hard, shaking his head. "No. No, Sophie, tell me."
"Because the woman who was supposed to work this station—her name is Maria—has an eight-year-old daughter with acute lymphoblastic leukemia," Sophie said, her voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute steel. "She worked sixty hours last week between two banquet halls. When Camille arrived at four o’clock, she threw an iced tea at Maria’s chest because the lemon had seeds in it. Maria was crying in the scullery when I arrived to review the facility logs."
Camille’s breath caught. She took half a step backward, looking frantically toward the French doors, but Henri Dubois had already slipped inside and turned the deadbolt. The staff had abandoned her.
"I took Maria’s shift," Sophie continued, "so she could take the commuter train into the city and sit by her daughter’s bed tonight. I wanted to see if the woman who treats waitresses like vermin was merely spoiled, or if she was truly rotten."
Sophie stepped into the Maybach.
"You chose poorly, Julian. You chose a partner who thinks human dignity has a price tag she can discount."
"Sophie! Wait! What about the note? The bridge loan!" Julian was crawling now, his hands deep in the muck, ruined silk clinging to his knees.
Davies paused at the door, looking down at the young heir with an expression of profound, weary pity.
"Mr. Vance," Davies said softly. "The financial markets do not care about your domestic squabbles. But Miss Morel does. The foreclosure papers will be served by courier at seven-fifteen tomorrow morning. Have your accountants at their desks. It’s going to be a very long day."
May you like
The door of the Maybach clicked shut with the heavy, vault-like thud of solid German steel. The convoy shifted into gear, the tires spraying black soil across the immaculate stonework of the Vance estate as they turned, heading toward the open gates and the highway to New York.
***
