Chapter 4 - The Real Graham Voss
The phone lay on the plush carpet of the Ostra hallway, the banker’s voice still faintly buzzing through the shattered screen.
Your father-in-law.
Ethan stood frozen, the blood draining completely from his face until he looked like a corpse in a designer suit.
Graham Voss.
The quiet man who wore unbranded navy sweaters. The man who sat in the corner at family dinners drinking tap water and listening to Ethan lecture him about real estate cap rates and prime restaurant locations. The man Ethan had dismissed as a washed-up, small-time bookkeeper who had gotten lucky with a suburban mortgage.
He managed billions.
Suddenly, the memories rushed back into Ethan’s mind like a tidal wave of ice water.
He remembered the wedding four years ago. He remembered asking Avery why her father didn't seem interested in discussing the seating arrangements or the catering costs. Avery had laughed and said, “Dad doesn't care about the show, Ethan. He only cares about what lasts.”
Ethan had thought she meant emotional values. He hadn't realized she meant structural, inescapable ownership of the city’s commercial real estate.
Trembling, Ethan bent down, picked up his cracked phone, and stumbled back out toward the dining room.
His mother, Linda, was flagging down a waiter with an impatient wave of her hand. “Ethan! Where have you been? I want to order the roasted lobster, but this waiter is taking forever—”
“Get your things,” Ethan rasped, his voice sounding entirely broken.
Linda blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Get your things right now, Mom!” Ethan yelled, his voice cracking so loudly that several patrons at nearby tables turned to look.
“Ethan, what on earth is wrong with you?” Marissa snapped, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin. “You’re making a scene!”
“We don't have money to pay for this dinner!” Ethan hissed, grabbing his sister by the arm and pulling her out of her seat. “My accounts are frozen! The South End location is being padlocked by the sheriff right now!”
Linda gasped, clutching her pearls. “What are you talking about?! Who locked it?!”
“Avery’s father,” Ethan choked out, terror finally breaking through his arrogant posture. “Her father just shut down my entire life.”
Ten minutes later, Ethan was behind the wheel of my black G-Wagon, driving like a madman through the streets of Boston toward Charlestown. He ran two red lights, his hands slick with cold sweat against the custom leather steering wheel.
He slammed the SUV into park in front of our apartment building, jumped out, and sprinted up the three flights of stairs to our front door.
He shoved his key into the lock, threw the door open, and screamed, “Avery!”
The apartment was pitch black.
The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the dark living room.
Ethan threw on the lights.
The apartment wasn't just empty; it was picked clean.
All of my clothes, my personal books, my family heirlooms, and every single baby item—the crib, the changing table, the clothes we had washed and folded together—were gone.
On the dining room table, sitting directly in the center of the polished wood, was a single sheet of heavy white paper alongside a small, silver key.
Ethan slowly approached the table, his knees knocking together.
He picked up the paper.
It was a formal legal notice of divorce, drafted by the most terrifying family law firm in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts—a firm that charged fifteen hundred dollars an hour and famously represented billionaires and foreign royalty.
Attached to the divorce papers was a single typed index card.
Ethan,
The key on the table belongs to your old pickup truck. I had Thomas tow it to your driveway. The G-Wagon you are currently driving belongs to the Voss Family Trust, and a stolen vehicle report was filed with the Boston Police Department four minutes ago.
You left my daughter on a hospital sidewalk with eighteen dollars for the subway.
You will find eighteen dollars left on the kitchen counter for your commute tomorrow.
Graham Voss.
Ethan dropped the paper, his hands trembling so violently he could barely breathe.
Suddenly, red and blue lights began flashing through the front living room window, casting a rhythmic, terrifying glow across the dark walls.
Ethan ran to the window and looked down.
Two Boston Police cruisers were pulled up behind the G-Wagon, their emergency lights blinding in the evening dark. Three officers were already stepping out of their vehicles, their hands resting on their holsters.
Ethan staggered back from the window, pressing his back against the wall, realizing the terrible, inescapable truth.
May you like
He hadn't just angered a hurt wife.
He had declared war on a man who owned the very city he stood in.
