Chapter 3 - The Weight of an Envelope
The tension in the dining room had reached a suffocating pitch, thick enough to cut with one of Bianca’s expensive steak knives. Ewald was loudly recounting a recent golf trip in Majorca, his voice booming as though he owned the airspace, while Lydia occasionally chimed in with condescending remarks about the decline of European manners.
Alexander sat between them and his wife, completely mute, his eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down the side of his water glass. Every time Bianca touched his arm or offered him a piece of bread, he flinched slightly, like a stray dog expecting a kick disguised as a stroke.
Helga watched him quietly. She didn't eat the deli food; she simply pushed the cold meat around her plate, her mind racing miles ahead of them all. She knew why Ewald and Lydia were here today. It wasn't for Mother’s Day. Nothing in this house happened by accident.
Suddenly, Alexander dropped his fork. The metallic clatter echoed sharply against the glass tabletop, cutting Ewald off mid-sentence.
“Excuse me,” Alexander whispered, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the polished floor. Without waiting for a response, he stood up and strode quickly down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
A heavy, awkward silence fell over the table.
Bianca frowned, her eyes narrowing as she stared down the hallway. “What on earth has gotten into him? He’s been acting so erratic all morning.”
Lydia leaned forward, her heavy gold bracelets clinking. “It’s the stress, darling. You really need to schedule that weekend couples retreat in the Black Forest. He needs a detox from... outside influences.”
Before Bianca could reply, footsteps echoed back down the hardwood floor. Alexander reappeared in the doorway.
His face was ghostly pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. In his right hand, he held a thick, heavy white envelope made of high-grade stationery. His fingers were trembling so violently that the corner of the envelope fluttered like a trapped butterfly.
He didn't look at Bianca. He didn't look at Ewald or Lydia. He walked straight toward Helga, his knees bending until he dropped down onto the Persian rug right beside her chair.
“Alexander, what are you doing?” Bianca hissed, her voice dropping an octave, sharp and dangerous. “Get up from the floor. You look ridiculous.”
Alexander ignored her. He looked up at Helga, his eyes shining with unshed tears—eyes that suddenly looked very much like the little boy who used to wait for her by the radiator in their old, drafty kitchen.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You gave up your whole life for me. Every single day. Every hour. You scrubbed floors so I could have an office. You broke your back so I could sit in a leather chair.”
Helga felt a sharp, sudden ache in her chest, but she kept her face completely still.
“I saved this,” Alexander continued, his hands shaking as he held out the envelope. “For six months. I didn’t tell Bianca because I wanted it to be a surprise. Please... take it. Buy yourself peace. Buy yourself something special. Move out of that basement. Please.”
With trembling fingers, Alexander pulled open the flap of the envelope.
Neat, thick stacks of crisp, hundred-euro notes peeked out from the opening. Twenty-five thousand euros in hard cash.
For one second, time seemed to stop in the room.
Bianca’s face didn't just twist—it shattered. The carefully constructed mask of serene, upper-middle-class elegance melted away, revealing a look of pure, unadulterated feral greed and absolute rage. Twenty-five thousand euros. Cash. Untracked, unspent, and sitting right there in the hands of the cleaning woman she despised.
“No,” Bianca snapped, her voice rising to a shrill shriek that rattled the wine glasses.
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Alexander blinked, stunned out of his emotional haze. “What?”
“That money is not for her!” Bianca lunged forward, slamming her hands palms-down onto the dining table.
