18. The Good Life #3
The screen flashed with the bright, rapid popping of camera bulbs. A luxury black SUV sat parked on a pristine city curb. The rear door opened, and a massive man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped out. Bastien Kavanagh. He turned back, offering his hand, and Cecilia emerged from the vehicle.
“No,” I muttered to the concrete floor. “No, she wouldn’t.”
But the image on the screen remained. She wore a tailored designer coat, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her posture radiant and untouchable.
She linked her arm through Bastien’s, offering a polite, composed smile to the press pool.
She looked exactly like the billionaire heiress she was.
I stood paralyzed in the sweltering heat of the laundry room, completely unable to look away from her face.
That was my money. She was standing on the pavement wearing my money.
I pushed myself away from the metal table.
My rubber-soled shoes scraped against the uneven concrete.
I shoved my way past a large woman folding towels next to me, ignoring her grunt of protest. The rough fabric of her sleeve brushed against my shoulder as I squeezed past the narrow gap between the tables.
I stumbled forward, my shoes catching on the rough surface, until my palms hit the painted cinderblock wall directly beneath the television.
The news anchor continued to praise the massive philanthropic donation, listing the millions of dollars the Vandeveer estate had just handed to a charity.
I listened to the zeroes pile up. I had signed the documents in Helen Caldwell’s office.
I had surrendered everything to secure that fortune. And now Cecilia was giving it away.
She had stolen my life, and now she was buying the adoration of the public with the exact millions I had bled for.
A fresh wave of camera flashes exploded on the screen as Cecilia and Bastien walked up the steps of the gala. The blinding white light illuminated the wire cage trapping the television. I stared at the strobing cameras, my stomach twisting with a sick, helpless rage. I raised my hand.
“That’s my money!” I screamed at the wire cage, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. “She stole it from me! I signed the trust!”
I spun away from the cinderblock wall. My hand shot toward the television screen again.
I scanned the rows of women working at the metal folding tables, demanding their attention.
They did not stop moving. A few lifted their heads, offering me blank, indifferent stares before returning to their endless piles of laundry.
The mechanical thumping of the washing machines easily overpowered my shout. I took a step toward them, gesturing wildly at the glowing screen behind me.
“That is my estate!” I shrieked, straining to be heard over the roar of the industrial dryers. “Do you have any idea who I am? I should be out there right now!”
The woman working at the table next to me paused. She slammed a stack of folded shirts down against the steel.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
“Look at the screen!” I yelled, refusing to back down. “That girl stole my life!”
She grabbed the bulky plastic rim of a laundry basket overflowing with wrinkled uniforms. She closed the distance between us in two strides.
Before I could raise my hands to defend myself, she shoved the basket straight into my stomach.
The blunt impact folded me forward. The hard edge bit into my skin through the thin uniform.
I stumbled backward. The unyielding steel edge of the folding table dug into my lower back, trapping me in place.
The woman pinned me against the steel, towering over me.
The sour scent of stale sweat rolled off her skin.
She gripped the plastic basket, pressing it tighter against my ribs to hold me against the metal.
“Nobody gives a shit who you were on the outside,” she said. “Shut your mouth and fold the uniforms before I break your jaw.”
I stared into her flat, dead eyes. My name meant nothing in this room. The manipulative smiles that had built my entire life had absolutely no power in here. I looked at the cold faces of the other inmates watching the altercation. None of them offered sympathy.
They did not care about my stolen millions or my ruined status. I was completely helpless. I dropped my gaze to the scuffed floor, my hands shaking by my sides.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m folding them.”
The woman stepped back, yanking the plastic basket away. She turned around and resumed her own work without another glance. I faced the metal table. The heat from the dryers blasted against my face.
My fingers shook as I reached for a fresh khaki shirt from the pile. I laid the garment on the steel surface, attempting to smooth out the collar. The coarse threads snagged against my fingernails.
I tried to pull the sleeves flat, but my vision blurred.
Hot, stinging tears spilled over my cheeks, dropping in wet circles onto the rough material.
I wiped at my eyes, but the tears kept falling.
The stiff fabric turned into a shapeless smear beneath my hands.
I stood at the battered metal table, weeping silently into the cheap prison uniform, entirely undone by the concrete walls around me.