C1 The Fall of an Heiress

No matter how hard Elena cleaned the chipped counter, the smell of burnt coffee remained on her hands. She bent over the table that was shaking and cleaned up a spill of milk. Laughter came from the booth in the corner.

"Isn't that the Marlowe girl?" one of the men said too loudly. His friend laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"Once danced at charity events. Now she cleans floors. Isn't it sad?

Elena's jaw got tight. She pushed the cloth tighter on the wood and refused to look at them.

"Be careful," she said quietly to herself. "You can't hit customers who pay."

As he walked by with a tray, her coworker, a slender lad who had just graduated from high school, muttered, "Don't pay attention to them." They're inebriated.

"Disregard what?" Elena made herself smile and stood up straight. "The fact that I used to know their wives by name?"

Again, the men laughed, and one of them raised his cup in a fake salute. "From champagne to dirty water." How the strong fall.

Elena's eyes shot up, cold with the memories of the woman she used to be. "Have a good drink. It can be the final item in your life that tastes rich.

His pals laughed as he coughed into his sleeve. Elena turned away and bit the inside of her cheek till she tasted copper.

She grabbed her coat, which was worn out where silk used to line the collars, when her shift was over. She saw herself in the café's mirror with spots on it. Cheeks that were hollow, hair that was quickly pulled back, eyes that were keen with anger but tired around the edges.

She was shocked to see a stranger with her face in the mirror.

She caressed the glass as if to calm the ghost that was looking back at her.

And for the first time, she thought that Elena Marlowe, the daughter of one of New York's most prominent men, might never come back.

As she stepped into the street, the skies opened up and rain fell in sheets. Her shoes, which used to be expensive leather, were cracked at the seams, and water got in right away. She pulled her coat tighter and pushed her way along the street.

She slowed down after the turn. The gates were ahead, made of wrought iron that looked like roses and thorns. The mansion she used to call home was behind them.

She couldn't breathe. The drapes were pulled back, and the windows gleamed brilliantly. People were laughing and holding crystal drinks. Someone else owned the marble steps where she used to practise ballet in satin slippers.

"Elena?" She whispered her own name, as if it would echo through the gates and open them.

A voice laughed from the darkness. "Are you looking for ghosts?"

She turned around. A couple walked by her, smirking at her ragged appearance, and their scent lingered.

Elena swallowed hard and put her hand on the chilly bars. She said, "It should still be mine."

A loud sound of tires cut through her thoughts. A black car pulled up to the curb and stopped. It was sleek and shiny, and the windows were darker than darkness.

The engine's hum echoed in her chest.

The passenger window went down slowly, and the rain hit the shiny door.

Inside, eyes that she couldn't see were watching her.

When she got to their flat, she was soaked and her hair was stuck to her face. She struggled with the rusty lock and pushed the door open.

She shouted out, "Julian?" and her voice shook.

There was a feeble cough from the old couch. Her brother was bent over, his body skinny under the blanket, and his skin was pale from the fever.

"Elena," he said, attempting a smile. "You look like you swam home."

She dropped her suitcase and ran to him. "Don't joke. You sound worse.

"Just a cough," he said, but that made him bend over.

"Julian—" She rubbed circles on his back with her hand. "You need real medicine, not the cheap stuff we can get."

He muttered, "You need to rest," his breath shallow. "You can't keep killing yourself for me."

She screamed, "You're all I have left," and tears filled her eyes. "Don't you dare make me bury you too."

He had another cough that was severe and ripping. Elena reached for the cloth on the table but stopped.

The handkerchief where he covered his mouth was bright red.

As the blood poured across her palm, her fingers shook.

"Julian..." she said softly.

His lips moved as if to say something, but nothing came out. Only the sound of his breath and the blood that wouldn't stop.

The walls of the flat were yellow from years of not being cleaned, and it smelt like wet plaster and boiled cabbage. Clara Marlowe sat at the window in her old robe, with her hair pulled back with rusty clips. Once, she was a beautiful woman who wore jewellery and gave parties in gowns that sparkled like stars. Her high cheekbones stuck out against her pale complexion, and her mouth was always clenched in a scowl.

Clara's voice was shaky as she replied, "You came back late again." "How much did you make tonight?" Is it enough to buy your brother's medicine, or simply enough for old bread?

Elena threw her wet coat over a chair and looked sad. "I worked till the store closed. The café pays what it can. "I can't make money out of thin air."

"Can't or won't?" Clara's eyes got smaller. "Your pride makes you scrub tables when you could be doing something useful." Even in ruins, a woman like you is still worth something.

"I'm not selling myself, Mom."

Clara laughed, but it was empty and chilly. "Don't be so over the top. I'm talking about a plan. Links. Rich men. Your beauty is still worth something, but it fades faster every day.

Elena's hands turned into fists. "I won't be another piece on someone else's chessboard."

"Then get ready to bury Julian," Clara said sharply. She got up and walked up to the counter, moving quickly even though she was weak. There was a huge, unopened envelope there. She slammed it down on the wobbly table, and the noise rang out in the quiet.

Elena looked at the red stamp in the corner. Past due.

"I'll find a way," she whispered to him, but he couldn't hear her. "Always do."

She threw the bills aside and started going through a drawer full of papers, including old resumes, debt notices, and bits of optimism. Not useful at all. The weight in her chest pushed harder.

Then a noise pierced the silence. A noise at the door, then a quiet thud.

Elena frowned and walked across the room. The aged doormat had a hefty envelope on it, and the paper stood out against the dirty floorboards. She lifted it up, and the seal felt smooth under her fingers. There was no return address, only her name written in neat black pen.

Her heart raced. She used a knife to cut the flap open, which let the crisp vellum unroll.

There was a name she hadn't heard out loud in years at the top, engraved in gold.

Gregory Thorne.

Her lips parted, and she took a short breath. The man who had once stood next to her father in boardrooms now reached into her ruined world.

The first line of the invitation made her knees wobbly.