Chapter 11 - The Investor’s Ultimatum
Wednesday brought a different kind of visitor through the front doors of the Clark Street flagship.
Marcus Vance, the senior forensic accountant who had delivered the killer evidence at the gala, walked into the dining room accompanied by a tall, silver-haired man in an understated charcoal bespoke suit. It was Jonathan Vance, Marcus’s uncle and the managing director of Vance Capital Holdings, a private equity firm that controlled commercial real estate across the entire Midwest.
They didn't sit at the tables. They walked straight up to the counter where Audrey was sorting fresh inventory invoices.
“Mrs. Holloway,” Jonathan Vance said, extending a hand. His handshake was firm, dry, and carried the weight of old money that didn’t need to shout to be heard. “I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours reviewing your mother’s estate trust documents and the new corporate structure for Opal & Son.”
Audrey shook his hand steadily. “And I assume you found everything in order, Mr. Vance?”
“In perfect order,” Jonathan replied, a flicker of genuine admiration in his sharp gray eyes. “In fact, your forensic structure is tighter than most Fortune 500 companies I’ve audited. Which brings me to why I’m here.”
He pulled a thick, embossed document folder from his leather briefcase and slid it onto the counter.
“Brett Holloway’s personal debts are currently reverting to liquidation,” Jonathan said smoothly. “His primary residence in Lincoln Park—the four-story brownstone he bought with corporate funds—is slated for a bank foreclosure auction next Monday. The mortgage is held by my firm.”
Audrey’s fingers paused over an invoice. “And you’re offering it to us?”
“I’m offering it back to the rightful estate,” Jonathan corrected. “Opal Finch bought the original plot of land on Clark Street back in 1974 before selling it to finance her expansion. Your family’s name is woven into the deed history of half the commercial real estate on this block. If you want the brownstone, the equity transfer can be signed before noon.”
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Before Audrey could answer, Micah stepped out from the back, wiping his hands on a clean dishtowel. He looked at the document folder, then up at his mother.
“Take it, Mom,” Micah said, his voice completely level. “We can turn the ground floor into the new pastry kitchen, and Dad can finally learn what it feels like to live in a house built by someone else.”
