Chapter 10 - The Last Transaction
The morning sun broke over the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and bruised purple.
Outside the gates of the estate, the black sedan sat idling in the cool morning mist. The driver waited silently, as he always did.
The front doors of the granite building creaked open.
A woman stepped out onto the stone porch. She was wearing a thick grey wool coat—a new coat, bought from the estate's wardrobe, tailored and spotless. Her grey hair was combed neatly back, framing a face that was severe, aged, but holding a strange, reborn authority.
Eleanor Vance walked down the stone steps. She didn't look back at the estate. She didn't look at the smoke drifting quietly from the high chimney of the West Wing office.
She walked to the sedan. The driver, seeing her approach alone, hesitated for a moment before stepping out and opening the rear door for her.
"Where is Mr. Sterling?" the driver asked, looking past her toward the quiet house.
"Mr. Sterling has completed his business," Eleanor replied smoothly, settling into the plush leather seat. "He won't be joining us."
She reached into the pocket of her grey coat. Inside, her fingers brushed against a small, black titanium credit card and a thick envelope filled with bearer bonds—the final contents of the safe inside Julian’s mahogany desk, which he had left wide open before he sat in his chair and watched the fire spread from the wastebasket to the velvet curtains.
The driver closed the door. The car accelerated down the gravel driveway, passing through the open iron gates and out onto the main road leading back to the city.
Eleanor turned her head to look out the rear window. In the distance, above the tree line, a thick plume of black smoke was rising into the clear autumn sky, carrying with it twenty years of secrets, lies, and ash.
She pulled the envelope from her pocket, pulled out a stack of crisp bills, and looked at her reflection in the dark, tinted glass of the car window. Her face was clean. Her hands were steady.
As the car passed the outskirts of the town, passing an old, rundown strip mall, Eleanor’s eyes caught a familiar vinyl sign fading in the morning light: Le Petit Four.
She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, resting her head against the cool glass.
"Driver," she said quietly.
May you like
"Yes, Mrs. Vance?"
"Stop at the next bakery," she said, her voice smooth, hollow, and entirely free of regret. "I'd like to buy some bread."
