Chapter 11 - Stripped of Gold and Skin
The intake room smelled of industrial bleach, cold steel, and dried sweat.
Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow hue over the concrete floor.
"Hands on the counter. Spread your fingers," the correctional officer ordered.
Eleanor didn't move fast enough. A heavy hand slammed down beside hers, rattling the metal table.
"I said move, Vance. You aren't hosting a charity luncheon anymore."
Eleanor took a slow breath, forcing her trembling fingers flat against the cold stainless steel.
For ten years, those hands had known only fine silk, diamond tennis bracelets, and delicate stemware.
Now, her French manicure was chipped down to the raw pink beds. Her skin was marked with deep purple bruises from the transport cuffs.
"Shoes off. Socks off. Strip down to your skin."
Eleanor swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand.
"Is this... is there no private stall?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
The two officers exchanged a mockingly amused glance.
"Welcome to state custody, princess," the taller one said, snapping a pair of latex gloves. "Private rooms are for the cemetery."
Every shred of her designer clothing was taken, bagged, and labeled like evidence from a crime scene.
Her cashmere coat. Her Italian leather boots. Her pearl earrings, which had been passed down from Arthur’s grandmother.
They sprayed her hair with cold delousing chemicals that burned her scalp and ran into her eyes.
She stood there shivering on the bare concrete, naked and stripped of the immaculate armor she had worn for a decade.
When they handed her the rough, oversized hunter-green two-piece uniform, the fabric scratched against her skin like sandpaper.
"Bend over and cough," the guard barked.
Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut. She bit the inside of her cheek until the sharp copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
She had rehearsed every lie, every charming smile, and every emotional performance for the jury.
None of it had saved her from this humiliation.
When the processing was finally done, they led her through three heavy sliding security gates.
Each gate slammed shut behind her with an echoing, mechanical roar that resonated deep in her chest.
The pod was a cavernous two-story concrete cage filled with tiers of narrow iron doors.
The noise hit her like a physical blow.
Dozens of voices bounced off the hard walls—women shouting, cursing, laughing hysterically, and banging metal cups against bars.
As Eleanor walked the center aisle between the tables, the room gradually went quiet.
Every pair of eyes locked onto her.
They saw the pale, immaculate blonde socialite whose face had been plastered across every news channel in the tri-state area.
They saw Crestview Terrace’s fallen queen, delivered right to their feet.
From a corner table near the phones, a woman with heavily tattooed arms and a jagged scar across her lip stood up slowly.
She looked Eleanor up and down, a predatory smirk curling her mouth.
"Look what the bus dragged in," the woman whispered, loud enough to cut through the hum of the air vents. "Fresh meat with rich blood."
Eleanor kept her chin up, but her chest felt completely hollow.
She knew right then that surviving the trial was only the prologue.
May you like
Her real punishment was just beginning.
***
