Vice (H.S)

CHAPTER 4 - MANIFEST DESTINY

There's a difference between old money and new money.

But you might think, money is money— right?

Wrong.

Here's the thing: there are families that made it in America, millionaires that go back a few generations, struck gold or invented a piece of patented farm machinery. There are tycoons and industrialists that will never have to work another day in their lives.

That's new money. And there's nothing wrong with new money, per se. Peggy Wallace is new money; her grandad made it in oil some years ago and, with any luck, that family will have money for as long as they live. Peggy will get a good, rich husband and she'll be taken care of.

Old money, on the other hand? Old money families are, well... families like mine. Families that have more money than you will ever see in your lifetime, more money than can fit in a bank vault. Money that can buy you airplanes and small countries and presidencies. Big, serious money. Money that can start or end wars.

The Banks family used to be royalty. At least, that's what Grandmarie says. Hundreds of years ago we used to be the royal family of someplace that was absorbed by France or Italy. But in America, today, being wealthy is the same exact thing as royalty. Having money means having your hand in every political race, every business venture in the country.

The strategic-social-money stuff... it's all rather boring to me. I am the heiress to a hideous, unimaginably large fortune; I was always destined to marry old money. That is my one and only job. Marriage means passing on the family business to my husband. Our family business? Our specialty? Precious gemstones.

Bank's Jewelry was founded in the 1830s, and even though the family business funnels in hundreds of millions each year, it's passive income. That's what happens when you've got money: it tends to multiply.

We are protected, my parents would tell me growing up. No one can ever touch us. That's why old money sticks with old money. Protection.

There's less pressure in new money than there is in old money. It's the fear. Fear of losing money can make people do crazy, desperate, depraved things. It's the world we live in.

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My mother's signature Chanel perfume announces her presence before I hear her voice.

"The Governor's here, Elwin." She stands behind me as I finish pinning my hair, primping myself for yet another chaperoned dinner date; we're to be escorted by both our families.

"Mother, how many times have I told you. You don't have to call him that."

"He is the governor of California." She crosses her arms coolly. "It would do you well to have some respect."

"I've known him since I was practically in diapers, mother. And he is my fiancé. I will not call him 'the governor'."

It hasn't been put in the papers, not yet. But it will soon. It might even make the front page: Banks Daughter to Wed California Governor. Or maybe it will list him first: California Governor to Wed Banks Heiress. After that, there's no going back. Everyone will know. And I wouldn't dare deprive California's socialites of a big white wedding, even after a recent, rather eventful trip to the theatre. I wouldn't dare put everything at risk for some dark-haired, green-eyed stranger whose name I've almost forgotten.

Part of me still doesn't believe it's real, that soon I will be the governor's wife. The thought scares me, even though it shouldn't. He's a bit older than me, but he's nice. Growing up, I couldn't stand him; he was like an annoying big brother who would come home from boarding school every few months only to be doted on by my adoring parents. Even then our families were plotting, surely grooming him to marry me and one day take over the Banks dynasty.

I take the stairs slowly to the parlor as my mother rushes off in search of my father.

He will be waiting for me, drink in hand. I'm sure of it. I step quietly, careful to conceal the click of my heels on the marble as I make my way towards where he waits.

Nearing the parlor, I halt, taking a deep, measured breath. There he is. My fiancé.

His back to me, I watch from the doorway as he takes a sip from his drink — scotch, 2 ice cubes, always the same. Then he lifts his wrist, eyes flickering to his gold watch to check the time. It's a practiced motion, predictable. And I know exactly what will happen next. He'll clear his throat, straighten his tie, then he'll drop his right hand into his pocket and raise his glass for another sip.

Throat. Tie. Pocket. Sip.

His movements are fluid. I would be impressed with the perfect habit, the precise mannerisms, if it weren't so boring. Practiced. Predictable. But he will be good to you, I recite. He will take care of you.

Hearing my footsteps, he turns, clear blue eyes meeting mine.

If nothing else, he's handsome.

"Hey, El," he greets me with an easy smile.

With a steady breath, I cross the room, joining him at the window sill.

"Niall."

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Did anyone guess this twist?! Comment below if you saw it coming...

Thank you to everyone who has been reading Vice so far! Your votes and comments mean everything to me. I can't wait for you to see where the story is headed! My update schedule is Monday, Wednesday, and Friday but sometimes I'll just upload a chapter here and there for fun.