Chapter 8 - Beatrice’s Reckoning
On Monday morning, the sun rose over a Manhattan social landscape that had been utterly rearranged.
Harrington Global stock opened at forty-two dollars a share. By 11:00 AM, it was trading at three dollars and fifty cents. The board of directors held an emergency session, voted unanimously to strip Richard Harrington of his CEO title, and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection to prevent total asset seizure.
In a small apartment on the Upper East Side, Beatrice Harrington sat in the dark, watching television.
Every cable news channel, every morning morning talk show, and every internet commentary channel was playing the exact same footage.
It wasn't just Eleanor’s speech.
At 9:00 AM, the Valmont Royal Security Service had released high-definition security camera footage from the Plaza Hotel’s bridal suite.
The video was crystal clear.
It showed Beatrice walking into the suite with her oversized glass of red wine. It showed her mocking Clara’s mother’s dress. And it showed, in slow-motion detail, Beatrice deliberately tilting her glass and splashing dark red wine across the ivory lace while smiling at the camera.
The internet had exploded.
#BeatriceTheVandal was trending number one globally.
Her personal Instagram account had been flooded with three hundred thousand comments calling her a monster, a bully, and a jealous sociopath. Her fashion brand sponsors had dropped her within twenty minutes. The board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Young Members Circle had issued a public press release officially revoking her membership and banning her from all future events.
Her phone rang. It was her mother.
Beatrice answered with a trembling hand. “Mom?”
“Beatrice,” Eleanor’s voice sounded hollow, like a ghost speaking through static. “Pack your bags. The bank has posted a foreclosure notice on the penthouse. We have to be out by Friday.”
“Mom, what about my trust fund?” Beatrice sobbed. “What about my allowance?”
“There is no trust fund, Beatrice!” Eleanor screamed, breaking into hysterical laughter. “Your father used the trust fund as collateral for the Park Avenue mortgage! We have nothing! Do you hear me? We have nothing!”
The line went dead.
Beatrice dropped her phone onto the sofa.
She walked to her window, looking out at the city that had adored her forty-eight hours ago.
On the street below, a delivery truck drove past bearing a massive digital billboard.
On the screen was a photograph of Clara—wearing a breathtaking emerald-green royal gown, a diamond tiara resting atop her dark hair, standing beside Baron Henrik at Teterboro Airport.
The caption beneath the billboard read:
May you like
HER SERENE HIGHNESS PRINCESS CLARA RETURNS TO MONT-VALEN TO ASSUME THE THRONE.
Beatrice sank to her knees on her designer carpet, covering her face as the rain began to fall against the glass.
