The Careful Implementation of External Pressure

Case #7: Colette Ainsworth.

Case #7: Colette Ainsworth.
Monday/July/1/2019/ 10:55PM

Colette Ainsworth knew her family was nothing more than a pack of vultures. She herself had been no better in her younger years, and neither had her parents. The Ainsworth line had always been one of greedy blood.

Still, her age and karma were going to catch up to her sooner or later, and it was time for her to finally decide which of her children she would leave her filthy fortune to. She dressed for her funeral, the finest of black silks gracing her old, vein streaked skin and a set of heavy pearls hanging from around her neck. Her husband had died a decade or so ago, she never cared to remember just how long it had been, so the decision of who would inherit the money was left to her and her alone, as it should be.

The Ainsworth's flocked to her estate, as if smelling the gold she was signing away, to fight like dogs to earn her favour.

She regarded them all with the sharp, trained eyes of a hunter, the kind that could tell if a gem was real from across the room, and they performed for her like clowns in a circus, dancing for her attention.

Her eldest son, Holden, was the most like her. He was on his third marriage, all of them having been loveless and void, with her gem-seeking eyes, blond hair, and sharp canine teeth, perfect for testing the virtue of a coin, or drawing blood. He had coerced his current fiance into tending to his sharp, angled whiskey glass, making sure it was always just full enough of the amber liquor he so loved. In truth, she didn't blame him for his boarding addiction to it; it ran in the family.

Her daughter, Alice, had the least interest in her fortune, in truth. Her father, Colette's husband, had been soft on her, Colette could tell. There was a hunger for wealth in her eyes, yes, but also a warmth not found in the rest of them. She was nearly in her thirties, yet she hadn't been married even once, and instead dwindled away her trust fund travelling to various fundraisers around the world. She was too much like her father for Colette's tastes, but the cruelty of the world would soon wash that away.

Ronan, her youngest, was Harvard-business. He had a year left, or maybe he had already graduated, she couldn't care less which it was. He would do the most with it, invest it smartly, grow it. He probably had a promising young doll wondering his penthouse a few cities over half-naked, dumb, but not stupid. She would make a decent wife for him, uncaring of a distance between them so long as her hands were heavy with diamonds.

Her butler, Lawrence, offered her a tall glass of champagne and she took it dully, watching her children mill about. Holden baited Ronan into a game of darts, while Alice scoffed and tried to make conversation with Holden's fiance, though she seemed pained with whatever nonsense bubbled from the woman's mouth.

She knew her children thought that they had stored her away in this large mansion in the middle of the woods, waiting for her to die just so they could get their grubby hands on her will, but she knew it would only take one cold look for them to snap back in line. Old or not, it was her money that allowed them to live carelessly.

She shifted, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them the opposite way, taking a sip of her champagne so that she could allow to lean it forwards without spilling any of the liquid on the lush carpet. Holden threw his last dart at the same time she moved and missed. She didn't bother to hide her judgmental lift of an eyebrow, taking note of Ronan winning the game even as Holden bulled the younger into a rematch.

Colette felt it before anything else, the subtle pull in her veins, telling her money was approaching, and she welcomed the feeling of starvation as she sat back, waiting to see which of her children would notice it first.

Alice tilted her head to the left, shifting farther away from the back of the couch and closer to the door slightly, seemingly unaware she was even doing it, and Ronan's dart hit to the far left of the bullseye. Holden's hand searched blindly for his glass of whiskey, unrealizing he had placed it to his right rather than left.