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When I collapsed at my graduation, the doctors called my parents. They never came. Instead, my sister tagged me in a photo: “Finally—Paris family trip, no stress, no drama.” I said nothing. Days later, still weak and hooked to machines, I saw 65 missed calls—and a text from Dad: “We need you. Answer immediately.” Without thinking twice, I… / Chapter 3 / 9

Chapter 3 - Locked Out in Paris

Three thousand miles away, the Parisian sun was setting over the Seine, casting a golden hue on the wrought-iron balconies of the ultra-luxury Hotel de Crillon.

Mom and Dad were sitting in the plush velvet armchairs of the lobby suite, sipping sparkling water while Chloe scrolled through her Instagram feed, checking the engagement metrics on her airport post.

“Arthur is probably still crying in his empty apartment,” Chloe laughed, tossing her phone onto the glass coffee table. “Can you believe he actually thought he was going to walk the stage? Such a drama queen. Always making everything about his health.”

Dad adjusted his silk tie, looking at his Rolex. “He’ll get over it. Once he sees we’re unreachable, he’ll calm down and sign off on the new development loan guarantee. He always does. The boy has no spine when it comes to family loyalty.”

Mom sighed, opening her designer handbag. “Call the concierge, darling. I want to book that private yacht tour for dinner. And tell them to charge it to the black card.”

Chloe picked up her phone, dialed the front desk extension, and handed her card to the concierge when he arrived at the suite door.

The young man swiped the card through the handheld terminal. A sharp, high-pitched beep echoed through the suite. The screen flashed red.

DECLINED: AUTH_CODE_FROZEN_TRUST_LOCK.

Chloe blinked, stepping closer. “There must be some mistake. Try it again. It’s an unlimited corporate black card.”

The concierge politely tapped the screen again. BEEP. Declined.

“I’m terribly sorry, Madame,” the concierge said smoothly, his French accent dripping with quiet disdain. “The issuing bank has placed a total administrative freeze on all associated accounts tied to Mercer Family Holdings. No transactions can be authorized.”

Dad stood up, his face flushing a mottled purple. “That’s impossible! I am Arthur Mercer Sr.! I own Mercer Development! Call the bank manager in New York immediately!”

“Sir,” the concierge replied, keeping a safe, professional distance. “The account administrator listed on the international routing gateway is not you. It is... Arthur Mercer Jr.”

Silence descended upon the suite like an avalanche.

Mom dropped her teacup. It shattered against the Persian rug, staining the white wool a dark, jagged brown.

Dad snatched his phone from his pocket, dialing my number with trembling, manic fingers.

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