Chapter 4 - The Reality Check
By the third day, the walls began caving in on Mark’s household.
Without my guarantor signature, the private school where Chloe and Tyler attended issued an ultimatum: pay the outstanding trimester tuition of twenty-two thousand dollars in cash by Friday, or both children would be formally withdrawn.
At 4:00 p.m., I received a text from an unknown number. It was a screenshot of a group chat among Chloe’s eighth-grade classmates.
The screenshot showed Chloe’s mirror selfie with the designer purse, followed by brutal comments from her peers:
User1: Didn't your mom's card get declined at the club yesterday? LOL. User2: My mom said your dad's company doesn't even own those trucks. User3: Is it true your uncle bought that purse cause your dad can't afford rent?
A second later, a text came through from the same number.
Chloe: Uncle Daniel please. Everyone is making fun of me at school. They said I have to turn in my student ID tomorrow. Please pay the tuition. I'm sorry for what I said. Please.
I stared at the screen for a long moment. Part of me—the uncle who had held her when she was a baby—felt a sting of sympathy. But then I remembered her arrogant, condescending smirk as she swung that purse in my face while her father laughed.
She wasn't sorry for disrespecting me. She was sorry her lifestyle was collapsing.
I replied with a short, precise message:
Daniel: Apologies are meant to rectify behavior, Chloe, not buy back privileges. Talk to your father. He knows his role.
Ten minutes later, Mark arrived at my office building.
My security detail called up to my desk. "Mr. Vance, your brother is in the lobby. He's demanding to see you. He looks... agitated."
"Send him up, but have two guards stand outside my door," I instructed.
When the elevator doors opened, Mark looked ten years older than he had three days ago. His suit was wrinkled, his hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The polished, arrogant demeanor he always wore was completely gone.
He marched into my office, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw two six-foot-four security guards standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind my desk.
"Dan," Mark rasped, clutching a leather folder under his arm. "We need to talk. Man to man. No lawyers, no CFOs."
"Sit down, Mark," I said, gesturing to the chair across from me.
Mark sank into the leather seat—the same kind of luxury leather he had enjoyed at his own dining table.
"Look," Mark began, his hands trembling as he laid the folder on my desk. "Things got out of hand. I admit it. Chloe was out of line, and I shouldn't have made that stupid joke. I was drunk, Dan. I didn't mean anything by it."
"You weren't drunk, Mark," I said evenly. "You were comfortable. You had convinced yourself that my wealth belonged to you by divine right."
"We're brothers!" Mark pleaded, leaning forward. "We shared a bedroom growing up! I watched out for you when you were getting picked on in high school! How can you destroy my family over a dinner comment?!"
"You destroyed your family the moment you stopped building a real business and started stealing from mine," I countered, pulling up a document on my computer screen. "Let's talk about page three, Mark. The hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars."
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Mark swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the door. "That... that was an accounting error, Dan. My bookkeeper—"
"Your bookkeeper didn't forge my electronic signature on five separate commercial credit applications, Mark," I said, slamming a heavy folder onto the desk between us. "You did."
