18. The Good Life #2
“That’s right. We just smile, we play the heroes, and we take the trust fund. It’s the perfect setup. This will work, dear,” Lavinia had answered.
We were fools. We had drunk expensive scotch and congratulated ourselves, entirely unaware that she was already moving against us.
Cecilia wasn’t crying because she was broken; she was using those tears to blind us while she quietly set the trap.
She had smiled in my face and sipped from my glass as she finalized the very paperwork that put me in this cage.
She had taken absolutely everything from me, and she did it with a polite smile.
The sharp crack of a plastic food tray hitting the concrete pulled me back to the deafening cafeteria.
A prison guard marched down the aisle between the tables. He wore a crisp blue uniform, a heavy baton swinging from his belt. He stopped near the bucket, glaring down at my hunched posture.
“Stop standing there like an idiot and move, Stanton!” the guard shouted, pointing a thick finger at the muddy footprint. “If I don’t see this floor spotless within five minutes, you’ll be mopping up your teeth too.”
I flinched, shrinking away from the sheer volume of his voice.
“Yes, sir,” I croaked. “I’m working.”
The guard sneered, dismissing me, and continued his patrol down the long aisle. He did not care about the corner office I used to hold. He did not care about my ruined portfolio or my expensive golf handicap. To him, I was just another uniform standing in his way.
I released the plastic lever and gripped the splintered wood once more. I shoved the mop back onto the stained concrete, scrubbing at the stubborn mud track. My blistered palms burned against the friction. I put my head down and pushed the wet strings back across the dirty concrete.
— Lavinia —
The oppressive humidity radiating from the industrial dryers clung to my skin like a damp sheet.
I worked at a battered metal folding table in the corner of the prison laundry room.
A dozen other inmates stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
Nobody spoke. The rhythmic, mechanical thudding of the commercial washing machines swallowed all other noise.
I reached into the canvas bin beside me, pulled out a crumpled, standard-issue khaki shirt, and tossed it onto the steel table.
The stiff fabric held its jagged creases. I brought my palms down on the sleeves, trying to force the rough material flat. The coarse threads snagged against my blistered knuckles. The raw, peeling skin on my index finger tore slightly against the friction.
I winced, staring at my hands. These were hands that had once worn diamonds worth more than this facility. Now, my nails were chipped and rimmed with grime.
“Keep it straight,” I whispered, fighting a stubborn crease in the collar.
I folded the right sleeve inward. Sweat trickled down my temple, stinging the corner of my eye. I brought the back of my wrist up to my forehead to wipe the moisture away. My fingers brushed against the hair above my ear.
I stopped moving. The platinum blonde bob I had maintained for decades was gone.
Without access to my stylists, the expensive illusion had faded months ago.
Severe, stark gray roots extended inches from my scalp, wiry and untamed.
The terrifying reality was that I looked exactly like the aging prisoner I was.
I dropped my hand back to the metal table.
I smoothed my palm over the folded khaki shirt.
I had spent my life manipulating men like Pieter Vandeveer to ensure I never had to touch manual labor.
I had traded my youth for luxury. I had lied, smiled, and clawed my way into high society, determined to keep my hands pristine.
And I had lost it all to a daughter I thought was a docile idiot.
Cecilia hadn’t just outsmarted me; she had humiliated me.
She hadn’t fought me for the trust fund at all.
She had simply stepped aside and let my own arrogance do all the work for her.
I had sacrificed my home and my entire untouchable reputation for a concrete cell, all to secure that fortune.
This stifling, humid room was going to be my permanent reality.
This can’t be the rest of my life. There has to be an appeal. A loophole. I cannot die in this miserable place.
I stacked the folded uniform onto the growing pile at the end of the table.
My shoulders ached with a dull, throbbing burn.
Every second of my existence was now dictated by guards and bells.
The country club friends I used to host were likely drinking champagne right now, treating my name like a disease.
“Coming up next on the local hour,” the tinny voice of the broadcaster buzzed from the corner.
High up on the brick wall, a small television sat locked inside a wire cage. It played a midday news broadcast at a low, muffled volume. I did not look up at it. I dragged the next crumpled uniform from the canvas bin, sweating onto the rough fabric as the last of my pride finally gave out.
The flat, muffled voice of the television anchor droned on above the relentless mechanical roar of the laundry room.
I stared down at the metal folding table, pulling the stiff khaki collar of the next uniform flat.
The fabric resisted my fingers, the cheap material abrasive against my blistered knuckles.
I forced a crease down the center of the shirt, focusing entirely on the rigid fabric just to block out the oppressive heat of the room.
“…making her first major public appearance since the scandal. The Vandeveer estate’s generous endowment will fund the new pediatric wing—”
The broadcaster’s voice cut straight through the mechanical roar of the laundry room.
My fingers went slack. The khaki uniform slipped from my grasp, falling flat against the steel table.
I turned my head, my neck straining as I looked up at the small screen trapped behind the steel mesh in the corner of the brick wall.