7. Marianne
Marianne
The winter gale whipped across the cracked asphalt of the strip-mall parking lot, tearing strands of hair from her loose bun.
Marianne braced her flat boots against the slick pavement, fighting the brutal headwind.
She wrapped her heavy winter coat tighter over her stomach, crossing her arms to shield the baby from the biting temperature.
Ice crystals stung her exposed cheeks. A faded neon sign buzzed above a corner storefront, bleeding red light onto the frozen slush.
“Just get inside,” she muttered, ducking her chin against the wind.
She headed straight for the rusted security door of the pawnbroker.
Her soles crunched over the frosted gravel scattered near the curb.
A dull ache bloomed in her lower spine as she leaned forward, pushing her numb legs to take the next step.
She grabbed the handle, throwing her body weight into the pull to force the stiff door open.
The hinges groaned as she slipped through the narrow gap before the wind caught the door.
The security grate rattled on its tracks as the door shut, cutting off the howl of the street.
A thick odor of cheap pine cleaner hung in the stagnant air, failing to mask decades of settled dust. Marianne stood near the entrance, taking a long breath to ease the burning in her lungs.
Dust motes drifted through the dim lighting, settling over glass display cases filled with old watches and tarnished coins.
A clerk slouched on a stool behind a wall of scratched plexiglass, turning the page of a faded magazine.
She shifted her weight, ignoring the throb in her ankles, and unzipped the side pocket of her canvas bag.
She dug her hand into the narrow space, feeling past the frayed lining.
Her fingers found the familiar velvet box, and she pulled it free.
Flipping the lid open, she stared down at the diamond bracelet resting on the cushion.
The halogen bulbs overhead caught the clear facets, casting tiny prisms of light across the grimy linoleum floor.
“I know it doesn’t compete with the pieces in Eleanor’s vault. But I paid for the stones entirely out of my own quarterly bonus. Just me. No Hawthorne strings attached.”
“It’s absolutely perfect. I’m keeping this on my wrist forever.”
Forever. She traced the cold metal with her thumb. The platinum represented Tristan’s first real sacrifice, purchased long before his family’s massive trust funds dictated their daily lives. Letting herself miss him right now was a dangerous game.
The Hawthorne estate was a toxic empire. Paying a ruthless divorce attorney required hard, untraceable currency. Sentimental memories of their first Christmas would not protect her unborn daughter from Winston Hawthorne’s balance sheets. She needed cash to buy distance.
She stepped up to the scratched window. She clamped her frozen fingers around the jewelry, refusing to surrender the metal. She pressed her knuckles downward against the edge of the transaction tray, forcing herself to let go.
“I need an appraisal,” she told the man behind the glass.
The clerk tossed the magazine aside and blinked at her.
She shoved the platinum bracelet through the narrow transaction slot.
The clerk picked up the platinum from the transaction tray, turning the metal over in his palm. He reached across his cluttered workspace and switched on a desk lamp. The blinding beam flooded the counter. He screwed a loupe into his eye and held the jewelry directly under the glare.
Marianne stood motionless on her side of the partition. She watched the clerk rotate the stones under the light, his thumb brushing against the delicate setting. He dropped the jewelry onto a felt pad.
“The setting is scuffed up, and these cuts don’t sell like they used to,” the clerk said. “Best I can do is four hundred.”
Four hundred dollars. The number was an insulting joke. Yesterday, she might have dropped her gaze, absorbed the financial blow, and walked away just to keep the peace.
The days of accepting scraps from arrogant men were over.
The divorce attorney required a retainer, and she still needed travel funds to clear the county line.
She just walked away from a multibillion-dollar empire; she refused to let a strip-mall clerk hustle her out of her daughter’s survival money.
Marianne stepped forward. She pressed her palms flat against the counter, bracing herself to show she wasn’t backing down.
“That is two carats of flawless diamonds set in solid platinum, and we both know it’s worth at least five grand,” she told him.
The clerk blinked, leaning back from the partition.
She stared at his face, drawing on the high-society education Eleanor had forced upon her, to counter the appraisal. She cited the specific grading and light performance of the gems, rattling off the clarity metrics without missing a beat.
“Pay me two thousand right now, or I’m taking it to the jeweler down the street,” she finished, gesturing toward the front door.
The clerk glanced at the jewelry on the felt pad, then back at her rigid posture. He pulled the loupe out of his eye and dropped it onto the desk.
“Hey, relax,” he said. “I’ll bump it to eighteen hundred, but I’m taking a huge risk on the resale.”
The steel register drawer shot open with a clatter. The clerk reached into the till. The flutter of bills being counted filled the quiet shop. He counted out eighteen hundred-dollar bills, stacking them on the counter, and slid a receipt through the slot alongside the cash.
“Hand over the cash,” she told him. “I’ll sign the receipt.”
She grabbed the pen tethered to the counter. She signed the receipt and dragged the small stack of hundred-dollar bills through the slot.
Marianne trudged down the frosted sidewalk, shuffling her boots across the icy concrete.
The brutal headwind ripped off the interstate, forcing her to duck her head as she walked.
She clamped her rigid fingers around the lapels of her coat, pulling it tight across her swollen stomach.
She kept her chin tucked, scanning the strip mall’s neglected storefronts.
A faded, rain-warped sign stood near the end of the block, directing foot traffic toward a family law office.
“Just a few more steps,” she muttered to the freezing wind.
She leaned into the glass door, forcing it open against the wind and slipping inside. The overhead heater kicked on with a rattle, blasting stale air against her frozen face.
She stood in a cramped, dreary waiting room. Peeling wallpaper curled away from the baseboards. A dying ceiling bulb vibrated with an erratic, wasp-like buzz, casting a sickly yellow glare over the row of chairs. A trash bin sat beside the reception window, reeking of burnt espresso.
It was a massive downgrade from the law firms Tristan kept on retainer.
And it is perfect.
She walked toward the row of seats. She sank into the nearest chair, letting out a long, ragged exhale.
The coarse upholstery snagged against her coat.
Finally seated and out of the wind, she forced her fingers to uncurl from her lapels.
She let her hands drop into her lap, resting them over her bag, and allowed herself to slump against the uncomfortable chair back.
The anonymity of the dingy office was exactly what she needed. No one here cared about the Hawthorne pedigree.
A young woman in a sweatshirt sat in the adjacent seat, bouncing a fussy toddler on her knee. The woman glanced over, taking in Marianne’s stomach before meeting her gaze.
“First baby?” the woman asked.
Marianne stiffened out of habit, bracing for the inevitable, probing questions about lineage and trust funds.
“Doing the single mom thing is tough,” the woman continued, adjusting the toddler in her lap. “But you figure out how to handle it pretty fast.”
Marianne’s rigid posture dissolved. The stranger wasn’t sizing her up, wasn’t looking for a networking angle. The knot of defensive tension in her chest finally unraveled. She shifted forward slightly, resting her hands on her lap, and met the woman’s exhausted smile with a genuine one of her own.
“It’s just going to be the two of us from here on out,” Marianne said. “So I need to get the legal lines drawn before I catch my bus.”
The woman nodded, pulling a stray cracker from a plastic bag and handing it to the toddler.
“Smart move getting the paperwork filed on day one,” the woman said. “I waited too long, and my ex turned the custody battle into a three-year circus.”
Marianne stared at the scuffed floorboards.
A three-year circus against Winston Hawthorne’s legal team would drain the life from her.
She patted the side of her bag, feeling the hard outline of the pawnshop cash.
She had to sever the chain today. Her daughter was not a trust-fund asset anymore; she was just a baby, and she was hers to protect.
A door cracked open at the back of the waiting room. A rumpled man with a loosened necktie stepped out into the hallway, holding a manila folder against his chest. He scanned the plastic chairs, his eyes landing on Marianne.
“Mrs. Hawthorne?” Simon Rosenberg asked, gesturing down the hallway. “You can come on back.”
“Thank you,” Marianne said.
She stood up, keeping her coat wrapped tightly around her bump. She followed him down the narrow, poorly lit corridor. The dry, dusty smell of aging paper overpowered the burnt espresso from the lobby.
She stepped into his office. The room was cramped. A towering metal filing cabinet dominated the corner, leaving only a narrow gap to reach the chair.
“Just let me squeeze past these cabinets,” Marianne said, shifting her bag to her side to protect her stomach.
“Watch your step,” Simon said, sliding behind his own desk. “The floorboards are uneven right by the radiator.”
Marianne navigated the tight space and lowered herself into the guest chair. She rested her bag in her lap. Simon dropped into his seat.