Chapter 9 - The Fall of the House of Laurent
The auction of the Laurent Estate in Bedford, New York, was held on a Tuesday in late November.
The trees were bare, their gray branches scratching at a white, iron-cold sky. The long gravel driveway that had once seen fleets of Ferraris and Bentleys was now lined with the unmarked sedans of liquidators, antique dealers, and bankruptcy attorneys.
Camille Laurent sat on an overturned wooden crate in the center of the stripped-out stable block.
Her phone had been disconnected three weeks ago. She was using a twenty-dollar prepaid burner that sat on her knee like a heavy, black stone. She was wearing a thick, cheap fleece jacket she had purchased at a big-box store in White Plains, her hands tucked into the sleeves to stay warm.
Across the courtyard, two men in overalls were carrying her mother’s seventeenth-century Dutch oil paintings out of the main house, loading them into the back of a climate-controlled moving van.
A sleek, silver Porsche Taycan pulled into the stable courtyard.
The door opened, and a woman stepped out. It wasn't Sophie.
It was Maria.
The former waitress wore a warm, elegant wool coat—charcoal gray, tailored simply—and held the hand of a small, pale girl with a woolen knit cap pulled low over her ears. The girl’s cheeks were slightly pink, her eyes bright as she looked around at the open fields.
Camille stood up, her body stiff with cold and hostility.
"What are you doing here?" Camille demanded, though her voice lacked its old, cutting sharpness; it sounded thin, like dry grass snapping in the wind. "Who told you you could come onto this property?"
Maria didn't flinch. Three months ago, she would have looked down, apologized, and stepped into the shadows. But now she stood straight, her chin level, her hand holding her daughter’s with fierce, protective strength.
"The bank holds the title now, Miss Laurent," Maria said calmly. "The Morel Foundation purchased the acreage. They are converting the stable grounds into a pediatric convalescent facility for children undergoing chemotherapy at Memorial Sloan Kettering."
Camille’s face drained of what little color it had left. "A... a convalescent home? Here? On my family’s land?"
"Yes," Maria said. "Sophie Morel appointed me as the assistant director of facilities. My daughter will spend her recovery here. In the fresh air."
Camille took a step forward, her hands clenching into fists inside her fleece sleeves. "You... you stole my life. You and that French monster. You planned this!"
Maria looked at Camille with something that was far worse than hatred. She looked at her with pity.
"Nobody stole your life, Camille," Maria said softly. "You threw it away because you thought being rich meant you didn't have to be human. Sophie didn't push you into the mud. You walked into it yourself because you were too busy looking down at everyone else to see where your feet were going."
Maria turned her back on Camille, kneeling down to adjust her daughter’s scarf.
"Come, Elena," Maria said to the little girl. "Let’s go look at the garden. The architects said we can plant sunflowers all along the south wall."
"Sunflowers?" the little girl asked, her voice light and clear in the cold November air.
"Yes, my love. Millions of them."
Camille watched them walk away toward the sunlit terrace where her father had once hosted polo players and hedge-fund managers.
She stood alone in the cold shadow of the empty stables. Her burner phone buzzed once in her pocket.
It was a text message from an automated staffing agency in Yonkers.
*Assignment: Commercial Laundry Facility. Shift: 11:00 PM - 7:00 AM. Pay: $15.50/hr. Reply YES to confirm.*
Camille looked at the phone for a long, terrible minute. She looked at the moving van carrying away the last remnants of her family’s three-generation empire. She looked at her raw, red knuckles, bitten by the early winter frost.
May you like
She hit *YES*.
***
