The Forgotten Genius: Rising From Ruin

Chanel hailed a taxi outside the hospital. She had no cash, but she had a plan. Or at least, a hope.

To the Maldonado Estate, Long Island, she told the driver. I will pay you when we arrive.

The driver, a weary man with grey stubble, looked at her torn dress. He seemed skeptical, but the address was in the wealthiest district. He nodded.

The drive was long. Chanel watched the city fade. Concrete turned to trees. Bodegas turned to manicured lawns and high stone walls.

They arrived at the iron gates of the estate.

Chanel leaned forward. She punched the code into the keypad from the backseat window. 1-9-9-8.

Nothing happened. A red light blinked.

They changed it, she whispered.

She had to press the intercom button.

It's Chanel, she said. Open the gate.

The housekeeper's voice crackled. One moment.

The gate opened slowly, the gears grinding. The taxi drove up the long, winding driveway lined with imported Italian cypress trees.

As she exited the taxi, she saw a convertible parked near the fountain. Beckham's car.

She walked to the front door, the driver waiting. She rang the bell.

The door opened. It wasn't the housekeeper.

It was Cynthia. Isamar and Beckham stood behind her in the foyer, like a tribunal.

Cynthia marched down the steps. She was immaculate in a cream pantsuit.

Without a word, Cynthia slapped Chanel across the face.

The sound was like a gunshot. Chanel's head snapped to the side. Her cheek burned as if she had been branded.

You trash! Cynthia screamed. Coming back here in a taxi like a beggar!

Chanel touched her cheek. She didn't cry. She stared at her mother, feeling a strange detachment. The slap had broken something, but it wasn't her spirit. It was the bond.

I need cash for the taxi, Chanel said quietly.

Cynthia laughed. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound.

No handouts, the housekeeper said you asked for? You don't live here anymore. You are disowned until you fix this.

Servants appeared from the side entrance. They threw two black trash bags onto the driveway. They landed with a wet thud at Chanel's feet.

Get out before I call the police for trespassing, Cynthia threatened.

Beckham leaned against the doorframe, swirling a drink in his hand. Need a ride to the shelter, Chanel?

Chanel looked at them. The toxic triad. She felt the heavy diamond studs in her ears. She had forgotten she was wearing them.

She took them out. She walked back to the taxi driver.

Take these, she said. They are worth two thousand dollars.

The driver took them, eyes wide, and sped off.

Chanel turned back to the house. The door was already closing.

She grabbed the trash bags. They were heavy.

She turned her back on the mansion and started walking down the long driveway.

Thunder rumbles overhead. The sky turned a dark, bruised gray.