Chapter 3 - The Paper Trail
By ten o'clock that morning, the suite’s small dining table was covered in high-grade leather folders, financial ledgers, and legal briefs. Elliot Shaw sat across from me, a sleek tablet in his hand and a lukewarm espresso at his elbow. Elliot had been my father's corporate attorney before becoming mine, a sharp-witted man in his late fifties with graying temples and a razor-sharp grasp of asset protection.
"The Northstar notice was served precisely at 8:05 AM," Elliot confirmed, sliding a blue folder toward me. "Peter's personal email, his corporate email at the agency, and a physical copy delivered via process server to the house. His mother actually answered the gate intercom. The server said she looked thoroughly offended."
I couldn't help a small, dry smile. "I'm sure she was. Marjorie doesn't like reality intruding on her narratives."
"Speaking of narratives," Elliot tapped the glass of his tablet. "Let's review the agency accounts. When you stepped back from active management at Vance Advertising three years ago to focus on your private venture portfolio, you retained a fifty-one percent voting share in the parent firm, correct?"
"Yes," I nodded. "Peter handles day-to-day operations and holds forty-nine percent. But I funded the payroll reserves through Northstar whenever his client acquisition numbers dipped."
"Well, they didn't just dip, Clara," Elliot sighed, turning the screen toward me. "They plummeted. Over the past eighteen months, Peter has been using agency funds to pay for what he listed as 'executive consulting services.' Do you know who those checks were written out to?"
I stared at the digitized bank statements scrolling past. The figures were startling—fifteen thousand dollars a month, twenty thousand the next, totaling over three hundred thousand dollars in under two years.
"Brooke," I whispered, the realization settling over me like lead. "Brooke’s failed boutique."
"Ex-actly," Elliot said, emphasizing the syllables. "He was funneling corporate capital from Vance Advertising directly into his sister’s shell LLC to cover her personal credit card debts, high-end shopping sprees, and luxury travel. Meanwhile, he was telling you that the agency was struggling due to 'market volatility' to get you to infuse more cash from your father's trust."
My stomach turned. It wasn't just the arrogance of throwing us out into the rain; it was a systematic, calculated exploitation that had been going on under my roof for years. I had thought I was supporting a struggling husband through a tough business cycle. In reality, I was bankrolling a parasitic family that viewed me as an endless ATM.
"What are our options?" I asked, looking Elliot dead in the eye.
"We trigger the corporate audit clause in the shareholder agreement," Elliot replied without hesitation. "Because you hold fifty-one percent of the voting equity, you have the right to freeze all agency lines of credit, suspend executive compensation, and appoint an independent forensic accountant immediately. Peter won't be able to buy a cup of coffee on the company card by noon."
"Do it," I said instantly. "What about the house?"
"The house is clean," Elliot assured me. "Because it was acquired entirely through Northstar Assets using pre-marital inheritance funds from your estate, it is non-marital property. He has zero claim to ownership, zero equity stake, and legally, he’s nothing more than a tenant whose lease has just been terminated. If he refuses to leave after thirty days, the sheriff will remove him."
Just then, my phone buzzed again. It wasn't Peter this time. It was an incoming video call from Marjorie.
I looked at Elliot. He gave me a sharp nod. "Answer it. Let's see how much she knows."
I swiped the screen and set the phone upright against my coffee mug. Marjorie’s face filled the display. Her hair was immaculate, but her eyes were red-rimmed and furious. She was sitting in my living room, the expensive quartz kitchen behind her bathed in morning light.
"Clara!" she barked, not even attempting a greeting. "What is the meaning of this ridiculous paper some man just pushed into my hands at the gate? Are you having some kind of mental breakdown?"
"Hello, Marjorie," I said evenly. "I see you received the notice."
"Notice?!" she shrieked. "It says we have thirty days to leave! This is Peter’s house! He built this life for you! How dare you try to humiliate him with some fake legal scam!"
"Marjorie," I interrupted, keeping my voice dangerously quiet. "The house belongs to Northstar Assets. I am Northstar Assets. Peter hasn't paid a dime toward the mortgage, property taxes, or maintenance in seven years. You are standing on my property, drinking coffee paid for by my accounts, in a house you told me I lived in only because of your son."
Marjorie’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "Peter... Peter told us he owned this place outright!"
May you like
"Peter lied to you," I said coldly. "Just like he lied to himself. Now, I suggest you start packing Brooke’s suitcases. Because in thirty days, the locks are being changed, and anything left behind will be donated to charity."
Before she could scream back, I tapped the screen and disconnected the call.
