Chapter 9
Two miles away from the federal courthouse, Fiona sat on a cracked plastic chair inside a bleak, neon-lit public assistance office. Her expensive mink shawl was long gone, replaced by a frayed, moth-eaten thrift store cardigan that smelled faintly of damp cardboard and cheap laundry detergent.
Her manicured acrylic nails—once the envy of Chicago’s high-society lunch clubs—were now chipped, broken, and dirt-stained.
A bored caseworker slid a stack of rejection forms across the scuffed metal desk without looking up.
"Your application for emergency housing assistance has been denied, Mrs. Vance," the caseworker said monotonously. "You have documented hidden assets and luxury goods registered under your name that haven't been fully liquidated yet. Come back when you're actually destitute."
May you like
Fiona opened her mouth to unleash her usual venomous screech, to demand the manager, to threaten them with her high-society connections—but the words caught in her dry throat.
There were no connections left. There was no manager. There was only the cold, unyielding concrete floor of the real world, where nobody cared about her sixty-course birthday jubilees anymore.
