Chapter 8 - A Visit to the Cell
Z
Forty-eight hours after the boardroom meeting, Eleanor arrived at the Westchester County Correctional Facility. The autumn wind was sharp, whipping through the parking lot of the concrete compound where high-profile white-collar defendants were held awaiting trial.
Eleanor was escorted by two corrections officers into a private, soundproof visitation room. She sat on one side of the reinforced glass partition.
A moment later, the heavy metal door on the opposite side buzzed open.
Celeste Harrington stepped in, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit that looked grotesque against her pale, exhausted frame. Her hair was greasy and unwashed, her posture slumped, and the arrogance that had once defined her had been stripped away entirely.
Celeste picked up the plastic receiver, her hand trembling violently. Eleanor mirrored the action, lifting her phone to her ear.
"Have you come to gloat?" Celeste rasped, her voice hollow. "Have you come to watch the fallen princess beg for mercy from the former maid?"
"I don't need to gloat, Celeste," Eleanor said calmly, her tone devoid of malice or triumph. "You destroyed yourself. You had wealth, education, status, and power—things I spent thirty years struggling just to survive without. And you threw it all away because of greed."
Celeste’s eyes welled with bitter tears. "You have no idea what it’s like. My father was going to prison! We were going to lose our home, our name, everything! Grant was my only way out. When Sterling told us you were alive, I knew that if Grant found out, he would cancel the wedding to focus on you. I just needed you gone for six months. Just long enough to get the merger closed."
"You tried to send me to prison for fifteen years," Eleanor said, her voice hardening. "You knew what it was like to grow up with nothing, and you tried to take the only thing I had left—my freedom."
"I’m sorry, Eleanor," Celeste wept, pressing her forehead against the glass. "Please... talk to Grant. Have his lawyers drop the federal conspiracy charges. I’ll leave the country. I’ll go to Europe and never come back. Please don't let me rot in here."
Eleanor looked at the broken woman across from her. For a split second, she remembered the terror she had felt when security cornered her cart in the ballroom—the feeling of utter powerlessness against people who believed their money made them untouchable.
"I won't interfere with the Department of Justice," Eleanor said quietly. "Actions have consequences, Celeste. In this world, you have to pay for the debts you create. I spent twenty-four years paying for debts my father created. Now, you will pay for your own."
"Eleanor, please!" Celeste sobbed as the guard tapped her shoulder, signaling the end of the fifteen-minute visitation window. "Eleanor!"
Eleanor hung up the receiver, stood up, and smoothed the fabric of her coat. She walked out of the visitation room without looking back once.
Outside the facility, a black town car was waiting. Grant stood by the open passenger door, holding an umbrella to shield her from the crisp October breeze.
"How was it?" he asked gently.
"It was necessary," Eleanor replied, sliding into the leather interior. "It was the final piece of the past I needed to put to rest."
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Grant closed the door, walked around to the driver's side, and got in. "Where to now, Chairwoman?"
Eleanor looked out the window at the vibrant autumn foliage, feeling the weight of thirty years of fear and hiding finally lifting from her chest. "Let's go to Newport. I want to see the ocean."
