Chapter 8 - Olivia’s Reckoning
Z
Three weeks after the disaster at the Ashford Hotel, the autumn leaves along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall in Boston turned a brilliant, fiery crimson. The city moved on with its brisk, indifferent rhythm, but for the Reed family, the world had collapsed entirely.
I agreed to meet Olivia at a quiet, nondescript café on the edge of Harvard Square in Cambridge. It was ten o'clock on a rainy Thursday morning.
When Olivia walked through the door, she looked unrecognizable. Gone were the emerald-silk designer gowns, the diamond pendants, and the immaculate, salon-styled blowouts. She wore an oversized beige trench coat, dark sunglasses, and simple flat shoes. She walked with her head down, her shoulders hunched, constantly glancing around as if terrified that someone might recognize her from the local tabloids.
She sat down across from me at the small wooden table, ordering a black tea with hands that would not stop trembling.
"Julian’s lawyer served the final divorce papers yesterday," Olivia said, her voice barely above a whisper. She took off her sunglasses, revealing dark, purplish bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes. "He’s taking the Beacon Hill townhouse. His family bought it under a trust before our wedding, so it’s completely shielded from the division of assets. I have thirty days to pack my clothes and leave."
I took a sip of my coffee, feeling a profound, quiet sorrow for the sister sitting in front of me, even if that sorrow was tempered by the harsh reality of her choices.
"Where are you going to stay?" I asked.
"I don't know," Olivia said, her voice breaking into a soft sob. "The Wellesley house is being foreclosed on. The bank seized it on Monday. Dad has to report to the minimum-security federal facility in Devens in six weeks. He took a plea deal—eighteen months for wire fraud and filing false instruments. Mom is moving into a one-bedroom rental in Framingham paid for by her sister. Nobody in our old circle will take my calls, Hannah. When I walked into my hair salon on Newbury Street last week, the receptionist told me they had no available appointments for the rest of the year. They literally erased me."
"You built your entire identity on the approval of people who only cared about your surname, Olivia," I said gently.
Olivia looked up at me, fresh tears spilling over her eyelashes. "I thought... I thought that if I did everything right—if I married the right man, wore the right clothes, hosted the right dinner parties—that I would be safe. Dad always told me that appearance was everything. He said you were a fool for working in that dirty workshop, that the world only respects people who look like they don't have to work."
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs.
"I was so jealous of you, Hannah," she whispered through her fingers. "When I saw you on television that afternoon... when they said your company was worth over a hundred million dollars... I felt like my whole life was a lie. I spent ten years pretending to be happy with a man who looked down on me, while you built something that actually mattered. And instead of being proud of you, I let Dad use your name because I wanted to believe our family was just as powerful as Julian's."
I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers. Her fingers were ice-cold.
"You don't have to pretend anymore, Olivia," I said softly.
Olivia looked up, sniffing, wiping her wet cheeks with a paper napkin. "What do you mean?"
"The state and federal judgments are against Dad, Reed Capital, and Mom’s civil assets," I explained, pulling a folder from my bag. "You were not named as a defendant in the criminal indictment. You are thirty-three years old, Olivia. You have a bachelor’s degree in art history that you never used because Dad told you that a doctor’s wife doesn't work. Your life with Julian is over, but your life as a human being isn't."
I pushed an envelope across the table toward her.
Olivia looked at it hesitantly. "What is this?"
"It’s a lease agreement for a two-bedroom apartment in Somerville," I said. "The rent is paid for twelve months. Inside is also a debit card with five thousand dollars for moving expenses and groceries. It’s not Beacon Hill. There is no champagne wall, no valet parking, and no high-society guest list. But it is clean, safe, and completely untainted by Dad’s fraud."
Olivia stared at the envelope, her mouth trembling as fresh tears filled her eyes. "Hannah... after everything I said to you? After I begged you to cover up Dad’s crime just to save my marriage?"
"I'm not doing this for the sister who stood in the Ashford ballroom trying to protect a lie," I said, looking her straight in the eyes. "I'm doing this for the sister who used to build cardboard robots with me in the backyard before Dad told us that girls like us were only meant to be ornaments. If you want to rebuild your life, I will help you stand on your own two feet. But the moment you try to use my name, my money, or my success to buy your way back into high society, I will cut you off permanently."
May you like
Olivia reached out with both hands, clutching the envelope to her chest as if it were a life preserver in a stormy sea.
"Thank you," she wept, bowing her head. "Thank you, Hannah."
