Chapter 4 - The Mystery of the Penthouse MortgageBack in my apartment, the silence felt heavy, suffocating. The glowing Manhattan skyline outside my floor-to-ceiling windows no longer looked like a symbol of freedom; it looked like a gilded cage.
I poured myself a glass of water, my hands shaking slightly as I remembered Chloe's parting words: You don't even know who holds the mortgage on your penthouse!
My father had bought this apartment for me outright as a wedding gift—or so I had always believed. The deed bore my name. The title insurance was in my portfolio. But when Anthony and I refinanced two years ago to "restructure our tax bracket"—a maneuver Anthony had pressured me into signing during a weekend getaway in the Hamptons—something must have changed.
I booted up my laptop, opened the encrypted secure portal to the City Register of Deeds, and typed in my apartment's block and lot numbers.
The screen flickered, loading a thick PDF document stamped by the Manhattan County Clerk's Office.
My breath caught in my throat.
The deed hadn't been refinanced. It had been transferred.
Three months ago, while I was recovering from minor surgery, Anthony had used a durable power of attorney—one I had signed years ago under the guise of "managing household emergencies"—to sign over the entire title of the penthouse to an anonymous offshore trust: Redemption Capital Partners LLC.
And the primary guarantor of that trust?
Not Anthony. Not Eleanor.
A name I hadn't heard in six years. A name my father had forbidden me from ever mentioning in our house.
Viktor Rostov.
The Russian oligarch known in financial intelligence circles as "The Butcher of Brighton Beach."
My phone buzzed violently on the glass coffee table. The caller ID displayed a restricted number.
I stared at it for three long seconds before sliding my thumb across the screen and pressing it to my ear.
"Hello, Marissa," a deep, gravelly voice murmured with a chilling, aristocratic accent. "I believe you are currently standing in my living room."
I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white. "Who is this?"
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"Oh, sweetheart," the voice chuckled, low and smooth like sliding glass over gravel. "Anthony didn't tell you? When he lost two million dollars at my underground baccarat club in Brooklyn last month, he didn't have the cash to settle up. So, he used your home as collateral. You have forty-eight hours to vacate the premises, or my men will come and pack your things themselves—starting with you."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
