Chapter 6 - The Fall of the House of Harrington
By 1:00 AM, the Plaza Hotel’s grand ballroom had emptied, but the Manhattan night was alive with panic.
News of the incident had leaked before the cake could even be cleared. A guest at row three had recorded Eleanor’s speech and the royal envoy’s entrance, uploading the video to social media. Within two hours, the clip had forty million views worldwide under the trend #RoyalSlipDress and #HarringtonDownfall.
In the penthouse suite of the St. Regis, Clara stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a dark velvet robe provided by her royal staff.
Baron Henrik sat at a glass desk behind her, three laptops open, his fingers flying across secure communication channels with Zurich, London, and Wall Street.
“The Wall Street Journal is running the story on their front page for the Monday morning edition,” Henrik reported, his tone businesslike. “Harrington Global’s chief financial officer just resigned via email. European credit rating agencies have downgraded Harrington corporate debt to junk status.”
Clara watched the yellow taxi cabs moving like tiny golden bugs down Fifth Avenue far below. “And the land lease?”
“Notice of non-renewal was served to Richard Harrington’s legal team at twelve-zero-one AM,” Henrik said. “The bank holding their three-billion-dollar construction mortgage on the Park Avenue tower has called for immediate collateral liquidation. By eight AM when the New York Stock Exchange opens, Harrington Global will lose sixty percent of its market capitalization.”
A knock sounded at the double oak doors of the suite.
Two royal guards opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was Arthur Harrington.
His tuxedo jacket was gone. His tie was untied and hanging around his neck. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, and he looked like a man who had walked through a hurricane. Behind him stood Richard and Eleanor. Eleanor had lost her pearl necklace; her Carolina Herrera dress was rumpled, her eyes red from weeping.
“Clara,” Arthur whispered, stepping into the room. The guards allowed him three steps before blocking his path. “Please. Just five minutes. I’m begging you.”
Clara turned around slowly, crossing her arms inside the sleeves of her velvet robe. “You have three minutes, Arthur.”
Richard stepped forward, his arrogance entirely shattered, replaced by the wild, manic eyes of a ruined tycoon. “Your Serene Highness... Clara... please. My entire life’s work is in that company. Everything I built. My father built. If you revoke that lease, we are bankrupt. The bank will seize the Newport estate. They will seize the penthouse. We will have nothing!”
“You told me at Le Bernardin that love was blind, Richard,” Clara said softly. “But the Harrington Trust was not. You were right. Numbers don't lie.”
“It was Sarah!” Eleanor shrieked, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at herself, tears ruining her expensive makeup. “It was me, Your Highness! I was jealous! I thought you were taking my son away from me! I was proud! I was wicked! Don't punish Arthur! Don't punish my husband for my vanity!”
Clara looked at Eleanor.
She remembered the way Eleanor had looked at her at Le Bernardin. She remembered the way Beatrice had poured red wine over her mother’s century-old lace. She remembered Eleanor’s speech at the Plaza, calling her a stray dog lifted up by charity.
“You didn't just hate me because you thought I was poor, Eleanor,” Clara said, her voice dropping into an icy register that made the room freeze. “You hated me because I didn't tremble when you looked at me. You hated me because you knew, deep down, that all your pearls and green dresses were just a mask covering a hollow, cruel heart.”
Clara walked closer to Eleanor, stopping two inches away.
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“My mother died in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn,” Clara whispered. “She washed dishes by hand. She mended her own clothes. But when she looked in the mirror, she saw a queen. When you look in the mirror, Eleanor, what do you see now?”
Eleanor dropped to her knees on the marble floor of the St. Regis, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands covering her face.
