Chapter 2 - The Golden Parasite
The morning after the attack, I sat in the high-rise corporate office of Arthur Sterling, the founder and chief legal officer of Sterling Commercial Holdings.
Arthur was a silver-haired titan of industry in his late sixties, wearing a bespoke pinstripe suit. He stared at the high-definition cloud footage playing on his tablet—the footage of my father smashing the industrial cooling units and my mother defacing the structural support columns.
"Astonishing," Arthur said softly, setting the tablet down on his glass desk. "Absolutely astonishing. Nadine, your father hit the primary structural support column with a nine-pound sledgehammer. That isn't just property damage. That is structural endangerment of a commercial sector."
"How much is the estimate, Arthur?" I asked, sipping my black coffee.
"Initial structural assessment stands at $850,000 for the building, equipment, and lost commercial lease revenue," Arthur replied, leaning back in his leather chair. "Because the property belongs to Sterling Holdings, this falls under federal commercial destruction statutes. We aren't filing a police report for a simple breaking and entering. Our legal team has already transferred the case file directly to the State Attorney General and the FBI's commercial crimes division."
"My parents think they're going to drag me into a civil dispute," I said, my voice steady. "They think insurance will deny the claim and I'll be forced to sell my brand assets to cover the debt."
Arthur chuckled softly—a dark, cold sound. "They have no idea who owns the dirt they stood on, do they?"
"None," I said. "They never bothered to ask."
While Arthur’s legal team mobilized, I drove to the east side of the city to confront the root of the poison: my sister Mallory’s luxury condo.
The building was paid for by a mortgage my parents had co-signed five years ago, putting their own suburban home up as collateral. I pulled up to the curb and stepped out into the crisp air. I didn't knock. I used the emergency spare key I had kept from years ago when I was still expected to play house-sitter for Mallory while she vacationed in Ibiza.
I pushed open the door. The condo was a disaster zone of designer clothes, empty wine bottles, and opened collection notices.
Mallory was sitting on her leather sofa in a silk robe, scrolling frantically through her phone, while my mother, Beatrice, sat beside her softly stroking her hair. Roland was pacing near the window, holding a glass of scotch.
When the front door shut, all three of them whipped their heads around.
Beatrice’s face instantly twisted into a terrifying snarl. She stood up, pointing a finger at me. "How dare you step foot in here! You selfish, heartless bitch! You brought this on yourself!"
"Did I?" I asked, walking into the living room with my hands buried deep in my coat pockets.
"You forced our hand, Nadine!" Roland roared, stepping forward, his chest puffed out like he was still trying to intimidate the teenage girl he used to lock out of the house. "You let your own sister face ruin! We gave you a chance to do the right thing and sell that damn bakery to pay off her debts! Now look at you! You have no bakery left! You have nothing!"
Mallory looked up from her phone, her eyes puffy and red, but her voice held the same entitled venom it had possessed since childhood. "You ruined my life, Nadine! The lenders gave me until Friday! If I don't give them the $1 million, they're going to freeze all my accounts and take this condo! If you had just sold your stupid little shop, none of this would be happening!"
I looked at the three of them—a trio of predators who had spent their entire lives feeding off my labor, convinced that their blood relation gave them ownership over my life.
"I didn't lose my bakery, Mallory," I said softly, a small, terrifying smile touching my lips. "I sold the building six months ago to Sterling Commercial Holdings."
The room went dead silent.
Roland blinked, his anger momentarily faltering. "What... what are you talking about?"
"I don't own the building, Dad," I continued, turning my gaze to my father. "I don't own the ovens you smashed. I don't own the display cases you destroyed. Sterling Commercial Holdings owns them. You didn't smash my property last night. You smashed the property of a three-billion-dollar private equity firm."
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Beatrice’s hand dropped from Mallory’s hair. Her face turned pale. "You... you're lying. You're trying to scare us!"
"The State Attorney General’s office signed the arrest warrants twenty minutes ago," I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and setting it on the glass coffee table. "The FBI commercial crimes division is handling the felony charges. They aren't coming to ask you questions. They're coming with federal marshals."
