Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Arrogant
The ride back to the Rossi estate in the historic district of North End was a journey through purgatory. Vivienne sat pressed against the leather door of the armored Mercedes, her body shivering violently despite the heavy wool coat Gabriel’s driver had thrown over her ruined wedding dress. The smell of sour wine and damp silk filled the enclosed space, a constant, suffocating reminder of her fall from grace.
Beside her, Gabriel remained completely silent. He stared out the window into the dark, rain-slicked streets of Boston, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against his knee. He hadn't looked at her since they left the Fairmont.
"Gabriel, please," Vivienne choked out, her voice stripped of all its previous high-society arrogance. "We can fix this. I'll apologize to your mother. I'll go to her room tonight, I'll kneel, I'll do whatever you want. Just... don't do this to my father. It will kill him."
Gabriel didn't turn his head. "Your father should have taught you manners, Vivienne. It would have saved him a lot of money."
The car pulled through the heavy iron gates of the Rossi compound—a sprawling, brick mansion that looked more like a fortress than a home. Security guards in dark suits stood at attention every ten yards, their faces grim under the floodlights.
When the car stopped, Gabriel stepped out without waiting for her. Vivienne had to scramble out herself, her long white train dragging through the wet gravel, the satin heels she wore sinking into the mud. She followed him into the grand foyer, where the warmth of the roaring fireplace offered no comfort to her frozen bones.
Standing in the center of the foyer was Richard Hartwell.
Vivienne’s father looked twenty years older than he had that morning. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his white hair disheveled, and his hands were shaking so violently he could barely hold the leather briefcase clutched against his chest. Beside him stood his wife, Eleanor, her face a pale mask of desperate elite pride that was quickly crumbling into terror.
"Gabriel," Richard gasped, stepping forward, his voice cracking. "I heard what happened at the club. Please... Vivienne is young, she was stressed, the wedding was a massive undertaking. She didn't mean to insult Rosa. We can settle this privately."
Gabriel walked past him, tossing his tuxedo jacket onto a chair. He stood by the fireplace, his broad back to them as he poured a glass of neat whiskey.
"The debt was twenty million, Richard," Gabriel said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I gave you a year to restructure. I gave you my name to protect your properties from bankruptcy. I even allowed your daughter to wear a four-hundred-thousand-dollar dress to a reception my family paid for."
He turned around, his dark eyes fixing onto the older man like a hawk. "The contract was simple. A union of our assets. A mutual respect. Your daughter broke the contract the moment she called my mother a peasant."
"Gabriel, please!" Eleanor Hartwell cried out, her aristocratic voice rising in panic. "We are the Hartwells! Our family helped build the Commonwealth! You cannot just destroy us over a... a domestic misunderstanding!"
Gabriel let out a short, dark laugh that made Eleanor flinch. "The Commonwealth doesn't buy your groceries anymore, Eleanor. As of midnight tonight, the Rossi Holding Company has purchased the secondary mortgages on your estate in Manchester-by-the-Sea. We have also liquidated the trust funds attached to Vivienne’s name to cover the initial breach of the marriage contract."
Vivienne let out a sharp cry. "My trust? That's my money! You can't touch that!"
"I can touch anything I buy, Vivienne," Gabriel said coldly. "And right now, I own everything your father has ever touched. By morning, the moving trucks will arrive at your family estate. You have eight hours to pack whatever clothes you can carry. The rest belongs to my mother."
Richard Hartwell fell into a nearby armchair, the leather briefcase slipping from his fingers and hitting the Persian rug with a hollow thud. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, defeated sobs.
Vivienne stared at her father, then at her mother, who had dropped to her knees beside him, weeping openly. For twenty-four years, Vivienne had lived in a world where the Hartwell name was an absolute shield. It could buy access, dismiss scandals, and command respect. But tonight, she looked at Gabriel Rossi and realized that her shield was made of glass, and he had just shattered it with a single word.
"Where do I go?" Vivienne whispered, looking down at her ruined dress, her voice entirely broken.
May you like
Gabriel looked at her, his eyes devoid of any pity. "You stay here. In the west wing service quarters. You wanted to call my mother a servant? You’re going to learn exactly how much work it takes to keep a house like this clean. You will report to the head housekeeper at six o'clock tomorrow morning. If you miss a single shift, your father goes to a federal prison for the tax fraud I've been covering up for the last six months."
He turned his back on them again, ending the conversation. Vivienne stood alone in the center of the foyer, the weight of her new reality crashing down on her like a collapsing building.
