Chapter 7 - The Commercial Execution
The terms were laid out in twelve-point Garamond font, clean, brutal, and devoid of sentimental adjectives.
“Section One,” I recited, looking past Sutton toward my father, who was leaning against the marble wet bar like a man waiting for a firing squad. “Sutton Ward acknowledges the unauthorized, fraudulent use of commercial line of credit number ending in four-four-eight-two in the amount of one hundred and five thousand dollars. She assigns all personal assets, intellectual property rights to the Sutton Style Collective trademark, and any future trust distributions to Ward Aerospace Logistics until the principal, plus eighteen percent commercial default interest, is satisfied in full.”
“I’m not signing that,” Sutton hissed, though her tears were falling so fast they were spotting the legal bond paper. “I’ll file for bankruptcy! You won't get a single dime!”
“You can’t discharge debts incurred through intentional fraud or willful and malicious physical injury in bankruptcy, Sutton,” Vesper said dryly, tapping the edge of the photograph showing the crutch being kicked. “Section 523(a)(6) of the United States Bankruptcy Code. You could live to be ninety years old, and twenty-five percent of every dollar you ever earn will go directly into Fallon’s corporate treasury until the last cent is paid.”
“And Section Two,” I continued, turning my gaze to my mother. “Althia Ward surrenders her life interest in the Druid Hills residence to satisfy the secondary corporate guarantee she signed when she cloned my browser session. You have sixty days to vacate the property. The house will be listed on the commercial MLS on Monday morning.”
“My house?” Althia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her voice rising into a breathless, aristocratic panic. “My mother gave me that house! The gardens... the rose beds... you can't take my home!”
“It hasn't been your home since Stellin mortgaged it to cover his fuel options in 2021, Mother,” I said, my voice as cold and level as a concrete apron. “You just didn't notice because I’ve been paying the second mortgage out of my consulting fees every month for three years to keep the sheriff from posting the foreclosure notice on your front gate.”
Stellin closed his eyes. A single, heavy tear leaked from the corner of his left lid, tracking down the deep, alcoholic red of his cheek, disappearing into the collar of his linen shirt.
“You paid the second mortgage?” he whispered, his voice broken. “You told me... you told me the bank granted an extension.”
“The bank doesn't grant extensions on four-hundred-thousand-dollar balloon notes, Dad,” I said, looking at him with the profound, clinical exhaustion of a structural engineer inspecting a bridge that had rotted from the foundation up. “I granted the extension. Because I was stupid enough to believe that if I kept the roof over your head, you might someday look at me like I was your daughter instead of an unpaid balance sheet.”
I picked up the Montblanc pen from my lap and set it on the glass table between Sutton’s shaking fingers.
“You have five minutes to sign all three copies,” I said. “Both of you.”
“And if we don't?” Althia hissed, her chin lifting in one final, pathetic attempt to project the high-society authority that had governed our family for thirty years. “What will you do, Fallon? Call the police? Have your own sister arrested on her wedding day? Think of the scandal! Think of what people will say in Atlanta!”
I looked down at the massive carbon-fiber frame encasing my right leg. I looked at the eight surgical pins protruding from my skin, the silver gauze soaked with dried drainage, and the memory of my sister’s laughter ringing off the marble staircase.
“The police are already in the lobby, Mother,” I said.
Althia froze.
“Two detectives from the Glynn County Sheriff’s Department,” Vesper added, checking her tactical wristwatch with clinical indifference. “Accompanied by an investigator from the state insurance fraud division. They’re currently taking a statement from the catering director regarding the authorized signature on the hundred-and-five-thousand-dollar voucher. If those three documents aren't signed and notarized by the hotel’s legal officer in four minutes, I walk down that hallway and give them the original server drives.”
Sutton looked at the pen.
Her manicured hand reached out, her fingers trembling so violently that the heavy metal barrel rattled against the glass vanity.
“Dad...” she whimpered, looking over her shoulder one last time. “Dad, don't let her do this. Please. You’re the head of the family. Tell her no.”
Stellin didn't move. He stood with his head down, staring at the floorboards, his shoulders hunched inside his rumpled linen shirt like an old, broken steer in a slaughterhouse chute.
“Sign the papers, Sutton,” Stellin whispered, his voice barely audible above the surf outside. “Sign them. We have nothing left.”
Sutton picked up the pen.
With jagged, uneven strokes that bore no resemblance to the sweeping, elegant autograph she used on her promotional headshots, she scrawled her name across the three signature lines.
Sutton E. Ward.
Then she shoved the paper toward our mother, buried her face in the Chantilly lace of her ruined wedding gown, and began to wail—a long, broken, animal sound of a child who had finally discovered that the world does not bend to a pretty face when the ledger comes due.
Althia signed next.
Her hand didn't shake. Her lips were pulled back in a thin, bloodless line, her eyes burning with an ancient, calcified hatred that told me I would never hear her voice again after this morning.
She threw the pen against my chest. It bounced off my black poplin shirt and fell into the leather binder.
“Take it,” Althia spat, her voice trembling with venom. “Take your money. Take your papers. Take your miserable, crippled little life and get out of my sight. You were never one of us, Fallon. From the day you were born, you had your grandfather’s dirty, common blood. You’re just a mechanic who got lucky.”
I didn't answer her.
I picked up the three signed copies, checked the signatures against the legal standards, and slipped them into the inner sleeve of the binder.
I looked at Briany, who was still frozen on the settee, her phone held in both hands like a live grenade.
“Briany,” I said.
The girl jumped, her eyes wide with terror. “Yes, Fallon?”
“Send the video of the stairs to my email address,” I said softly. “The unedited one. The one with the audio.”
“I... I already sent it,” she whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I sent it to Vesper twenty minutes ago.”
“Good girl,” I murmured.
I turned the joystick on my transport chair. The electric motor whirred, swinging the heavy treads around toward the open double doors.
I didn't look back at the room. I didn't look at the marabou feathers on the floor, the splintered iPhone, or the four-thousand-dollar gardenias wilting in the coastal heat on the lawn below.
As Vesper stepped into the hallway beside me, pulling the heavy mahogany doors shut behind us with a solid, definitive click, she leaned down, her shoulder brushing against mine.
“Where to now, Engineer?” she asked.
May you like
I rested my left hand on the black leather binder, feeling the solid, unyielding weight of the paper against my thigh, and looked down the long, carpeted corridor toward the elevators.
“Mobile, Alabama,” I said. “I have four freighters to inspect.”
