39

A fleet of six matte-black delivery vans was currently snaking around the circular drive, positioning themselves like a tactical unit. And at the head of the convoy was a brand-new, shimmering silver Lamborghini Revuelto.

The driver’s side scissor door swiveled upward with a hiss.

Giselle stepped out. Her hair straightened and swaying in the wind that brushed past her face, it was a wild sight, her sunglasses were large, and her struck a pose with her hands on her waist, she flipped her hair and took in a deep breath.

Chase stood on the top step, frozen, his hands twitching at his sides. "Giselle? What is... whose car is that?"

Giselle didn't answer. she cat walked up the steps with the rhythmic click of heels. As she reached the top step, she didn't stop. She didn't even slow down. Without looking at Chase’s face, she reached up, unbuttoned her new cashmere trench coat, and draped it over his extended, shocked arm.

"Be careful with my baby, darling," she said casually, her eyes fixed on the hallway behind him. "It’s vicuña. It doesn't like rough handling."

Chase stood there, draped in her coat. "You... you just... did you just give me your coat?"

Giselle finally stopped just inside the threshold, where Richard was standing. Richard, for the first time in his life, looked genuinely speechless. His eyes were darting between the fleet of vans and the woman standing before him.

Giselle turned her head slightly toward Chase, who was still standing on the porch like a confused gargoyle. "Oh, Chase. Forgive me. I completely forgot you were standing there."

"You can’t be serious—Giselle, have you lost your mind?" Chase muffled.

She turned her gaze to Richard, offering a kind smile. "Good day, Father-in-law. I hope your coffee was to your liking this morning."

Richard blabbered something entirely inaudible, a series of stammers that sounded like 'I... well... the car... the vans...' It was the first time Giselle had ever seen the great Richard Hemingway lose his linguistic footing.

"God! I’ve had a remarkably long day," Giselle continued, ignoring Richard’s glitching. "Shopping is truly the most exhausting sport. I feel quite faint. I’d like to get some rest before dinner."

She turned back to Chase, who was now vibrating with humiliation and rage.

"Oh, and Chase?"

"What!"

"You should probably consider moving your things to the guest wing this afternoon," she said, checking her manicure.

"The guest wing? This is my bedroom! Our bedroom!"

"My bedroom," Giselle corrected, her eyes turning cold. "Now, I need the space to keep my new babies. I simply cannot have your suits and that dreadful cologne crowding my new dresses. It’s a matter of preservation, you understand."

"You are kicking me out of my own room?" Chase roared.

"I’m giving you what you always wanted, freedom," she replied.

She turned toward the driveway and snapped her fingers. "Gentlemen! This way, please! Straight up the staircase."

A small army of delivery men in black uniforms began to pour into the house. They moved in a synchronized line, carrying rack after rack of clothing. Shimmering evening gowns, structured blazers, furs that looked like they belonged in a museum. Then came the shoe trunks—massive, leather-bound boxes stacked three high. Then the bags.

"Upstairs, fourth door on the left," Giselle directed, pointing with a gloved hand. "Line the summer furs in the east side of the closet. The diamonds go in the floor safe."

Richard watched, mesmerized, as a rack of sheer lace dresses glided past his nose. He looked at Giselle, then at the mountain of merchandise, then back at his son.

"Chase," Richard finally managed to choke out. "I think... I think she’s serious about the guest room."

"I don't give a damn if she's serious!" Chase lunged toward Giselle, but she didn't flinch. She simply looked at a delivery man carrying a particularly large box.

"Careful with that one, Peter," she said to the man. "That’s the vintage Chanel. If it so much as wrinkles.”

"Giselle, look at me!" Chase grabbed her shoulder.

Giselle stopped and looked at his hands. Then she looked at his eyes. The look was so empty, so devoid of the old fear, that Chase instinctively let go.

"Chase, I have better things to do with my time than discuss with you," she said turning to walk away.

"You wouldn't dare away from me," Chase hissed.

"Try me," she whispered.

She turned and began to walk up the stairs, following the parade of luxury.

Richard watched her from the bottom of the stairs.

"Dad!" Chase yelled, turning to Richard. "Are you going to stand there and watch? Are you seeing this? She’s insane!!"

Richard didn't look at his son. He kept his eyes on Giselle’s retreating form.

"I am doing something, Chase," Richard murmured.

"What? What are you doing?"

"Go handle your business," Richard said, "Go, just go."

"I’m going out," Chase spat, looking like he was about to cry. "I can't be here for this.."

"And if I were you, I’d start packing that guest room."

Giselle reached the landing and looked down one last time. She saw Richard watching her. She didn't look away. She wink at him before vanishing, followed by the last of the delivery men.

The hall way fell silent, save for the distant sound of racks being wheeled across the floors upstairs.

Richard picked up his coffee and took a sip. It tasted better than it had earlier.