Chapter 6 - Homecoming
Forty-eight hours after the courtroom filings, the heavy oak doors of Vincent Vance’s downtown law office swung open.
Dad looked ten years older. His expensive suit was rumpled, his hair uncombed, and his face was drained of all color. Mom trailed behind him, eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying, while Chloe stomped her feet, trembling with furious indignation.
They had taken the red-eye flight back from Paris in coach—the only seats they could afford after their emergency debit cards were permanently blocked at the airport kiosk.
Vincent and I were sitting at the conference table. I had been discharged from the hospital that morning, a neat line of surgical staples hidden beneath my hair, wearing a sharp, custom-tailored navy suit that commanded the room.
Dad slammed his briefcase onto the mahogany table, pointing a shaking finger directly at me.
“You arrogant little bastard!” Dad roared, leaning over the table. “Calling the federal marshals?! Posting seizure notices on our home?! Have you lost your damn mind? We are your family!”
“Family?” I asked quietly, not even flinching as I stood up slowly from my chair. “Where was my family when I was flatlining on a graduation stage? Where was my family when the doctors called three times and you hung up?”
“We were busy!” Chloe shrieked, slamming her designer handbag onto the table. “Do you know how embarrassing it was to get kicked out of the Hotel de Crillon? Everyone was staring at us! All because you couldn't handle a little medical emergency without turning it into a soap opera!”
I stared at my sister, feeling a cold, hollow numbness where familial love used to reside.
“You stole one hundred and eighty thousand dollars from my medical reserve trust to fund a luxury vacation while I was in intensive care,” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. “That isn't a soap opera, Chloe. That’s grand larceny.”
Vincent slid two thick stacks of parchment across the table, stopping them right in front of Dad’s trembling hands.
“What are these?” Dad whispered, his voice cracking.
“Document A is the complete asset surrender for Mercer Development,” Vincent explained smoothly. “You sign over 100% of the voting shares to Arthur Jr. In exchange, the criminal embezzlement charges against Chloe will be conditionally suspended.”
Dad’s eyes widened in sheer horror. “You’re taking my company? Everything I built? Everything I worked for?!”
“Document B,” I added, stepping closer and looking him dead in the eye, “is the debt restructuring agreement with Thorne & Sterling Capital. Marcus Thorne already signed it. The moment you put your signature on that line, your personal debt is wiped clean, and you walk away with zero liabilities—and zero ownership.”
Mom burst into tears, grabbing Dad’s arm. “Arthur, please! Do something! We can’t be broke! We can’t lose the house!”
Dad looked down at the pen resting on the contract. His hands shook so violently he could barely grip the barrel. He looked up at me, his eyes pleading for a shred of mercy that I had already locked away.
“Please, son,” Dad whispered, his voice breaking into a pathetic sob. “Have a heart. We raised you. We fed you.”
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“You didn’t raise me, Dad,” I said softly, leaning down so only he could hear. “You used me. And today, the bill is finally paid in full.”
With a hollow, defeated sigh, Dad picked up the pen, pressed the nib against the paper, and signed his empire away.
