Chapter 8 - The Reality of Four Hundred Dollars
Six months passed.
Winter had arrived in New York, blanketing Bellevue Manor in a pristine layer of soft white snow.
The mansion had transformed completely. The long-abandoned east wing had been renovated into four warm, beautiful apartments for women recovering from domestic hardship—a project I funded through the Bellevue Endowment. Every afternoon, the grand foyer echoed with the laughter of children, including Lucas, who spent his hours after school playing piano in the music room.
I sat in my office—Christopher’s former study—reviewing the monthly operational reports prepared by Samuel’s office.
A soft knock came at the door.
Samuel Bennett stepped inside, shaking the snow off his woolen coat. He carried a leather briefcase, but his expression was unusually solemn.
“Good morning, Helena,” Samuel said, taking a seat across from me.
“Good morning, Samuel. You look troubled. Is there an issue with the trust taxes?”
“No,” Samuel said, setting a thin file folder on the desk. “The trust is performing exceptionally well. I’m here regarding Justin.”
My hand paused over my papers. I hadn't seen or heard from Justin since the day in the legal conference room six months ago.
“What about him?” I asked quietly.
“He defaulted on his luxury apartment lease in Soho three months ago,” Samuel explained. “His sports car was repossessed by the dealership, and his credit accounts have been frozen due to outstanding debts exceeding six hundred thousand dollars.”
I listened silently.
“For the past six months,” Samuel continued, “he has refused to accept the four-hundred-dollar monthly distribution check out of pride. He tried working as an entry-level associate at a real estate firm, but he was terminated within three weeks for insubordination and attendance issues.”
“Where is he staying?”
Samuel sighed, looking out the window at the snow falling on the driveway. “A residential motel near the industrial docks in Queens. He’s two weeks away from eviction.”
I looked down at my desk—at the smooth mahogany, the polished brass lamp, the warmth of the roaring fireplace in the corner. I thought about my own small kitchen six months ago, staring into an empty refrigerator, wondering how I was going to buy groceries for my grandson after receiving a four-hundred-dollar envelope.
Justin had never known cold. He had never known hunger. He had lived his entire life wrapped in silk, believing that his money made him superior to the people who cleaned his mess.
“Did he send you to ask for money, Samuel?” I asked.
“No,” Samuel said. “His attorney called me off the record. Justin didn't ask him to call. Harrison called because he felt a lingering obligation to Christopher. He said Justin is broken, Helena. Really broken.”
I stood up from my chair, walked over to the closet, and took down my heavy winter coat.
“Helena?” Samuel asked, rising from his seat. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to Queens, Samuel,” I said, wrapping my wool scarf around my neck.
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“Helena, you don't owe that boy anything,” Samuel pressed, his tone protective. “He treated you like trash. He tried to ruin you.”
“I know what he did, Samuel,” I said, looking at him calmly. “And I don't owe him anything. But Christopher sat beside me in a laundry room when I had nothing left. I won't let his son die in the gutter.”
