Chapter Text
“Huh, would you look at that.”
Eleanor’s eyes scanned the pompous coat of arms stamped onto the seal of the envelope in her hands before sliding her finger under the corner of the flap and carelessly tearing it in half. Under normal circumstances, she would have never have bothered to read anything in her mailbox with typography that elegant (it was probably a bill), but she had returned from the liquor store earlier than expected, she was bored, and the trashy reality TV show she was waiting to watch didn’t start for several minutes. If there were ever a time to read about how much money she didn’t have, then it was when she was holding a quart of rum and fisting a bucket of stale cheese balls that she only vaguely remembered picking up from Walmart three weeks ago.
…Except that the equally fancy-looking letter inside was decidedly not a plea for payment from one of the many, many companies she owed money to, nor was it a statement from the bank informing her of the depressingly minuscule balance in her checking account - it was almost the opposite of all that. It was a letter telling her that she was rich. It was a letter telling her that she was a winner.
Again, under normal circumstances, she would have dismissed a letter informing her that she’s won two-and-a-half million dollars and a free week-long trip to France with foxy, humanitarian model, Tahani AL-Jamil. Usually, she would have chucked it straight into the trash with all the other flyers, bills, and hokey “You’re a winner!” bullshit that she finds in her mailbox, but she’s already a little bit drunk and it was a long day (driving home felt like it took ages) - she needed something.
Though Eleanor had never been in the habit of putting much effort into anything that didn’t offer immediate gratification, she inexplicably found herself flopped on the faded red-wine stain in the middle of her couch, googling the organization indicated in the figurehead of the paper. When several minutes of snooping, revealed that the phone number in the letter corresponded to a very legitimate organization and a very interesting New York Times article about said organization promising to finance a deserving charity… Eleanor stopped breathing.
She continued to stare dumbly at the screen for another minute. Eleanor couldn’t remember applying for funding from the Al-Jamil Group for a charity she had never heard of before – a charity that she most certainly wasn’t running - but there it was on the page beside her in classy font:
“Dear Eleanor Shellstrop, Founder & CEO of The Good Place Foundation...”
An idea bubbled up in the back of her mind and slowly started taking over. It was crazy – there was no way that she could get away with a scheme this insane. She leap into the air, releasing the ecstatic – vaguely psychotic – scream that had been building in her chest since she first punched the numbers into the text bar. After a few minutes of squealing, dramatic flailing, and couch jumping, Eleanor had managed to settle herself enough to at least try and think critically about this. If she got caught, then she would - definitely - go to jail forever for fraud; however, if she didn’t get caught, then she would bag, like, two-and-a-half million dollars in cash (and possibly bang that hot Al-Jamil Group president, if she was really lucky) and disappear before anyone grew the wiser.
…Honestly, there was no real point in even trying – her hand was already scrambling for phone.
“Hi, I’m Eleanor Shellstrop, and I think you guys have a lot of money with my name on it.”
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Tahani anxiously tapped a pen against the ornate mahogany desk as she read over the email on her tablet for the fifth time. She bit her lip. Her secretary had just informed her that the CEO of the charity that was to be the recipient of the most generous grant by her family’s company had contacted them this morning and graciously accepted their aid.
She deliberately dismissed the uncomfortable expression on Pierre’s face when he had spoken with her as mere intimidation resulting from the sophisticated grace and obviously impressive intellect of his new employer – he had only been working under her for a few months, after all. The Good Place Foundation had been hand-selected by her as the most deserving of all the nominees. There was no way that this endeavor would fail. Tahani glanced at the email from her father that was rife with thinly veiled threats, detailing exactly what would happen should their sponsorship of The Good Place Foundation end-up as anything other than a rousing success. The positive press that the Al-Jamil Group would receive from this would be well worth the organization’s investment: the Good Place Foundation provided assistance to destitute orphans and families in war-torn, developing countries, while researching methods of developing cost-effective alternatives to expensive medications to send to these countries, and was headed by CEO that was a lawyer credited with saving the lives of several innocent people from death row.
This would all work out.
Tahani skimmed her father’s message one more time before exiting the browser and leaning back in her chair to gaze out the window at the beautiful English countryside. By this time next week, she would be in France, blessing Eleanor Shellstrop with her presence. The grateful CEO would gush to the media about the abundant wisdom and generosity of Tahani Al-Jamil from the Al-Jamil Group, and about how The Good Place Foundation’s future was now secure - thanks to her, Tahani Al-Jamil. None of the terrible outcomes promised by her father would come true and he will be so happy that he will just have to feel proud of her. For once, her parents would be forced to peer into Kamilah’s shadow and remember that they have a second daughter worthy of praise and recognition. She would make sure that everything in the next couple weeks went off without a hitch - no matter the cost.
This would all work out.
It had to.