Chapter 6 - The Loft in Soho
Mia didn't call from her personal phone. She called from her loft's landline—a line that was billed directly to the building's central amenities package.
When I answered, there was no dramatic shouting at first. There was only the sound of high-pitched hyperventilation.
"Olivia?" Mia’s voice was cracked, wet, and thick with terror. "Olivia, please tell me there's a mistake. Please tell me the bursar's office made a mistake."
"There is no mistake, Mia," I said, leaning back against the high cushion of the desk chair.
"They just sent me an automated portal alert!" she sobbed, the high-society accent she had cultivated over three years at NYU completely disappearing into raw, desperate panic. "It says my senior registration is suspended! It says my fall housing clearance is revoked because the tuition deposit bounced! I'm supposed to graduate in four months, Olivia! I have my senior showcase project next week!"
"Then I suggest you speak to the registrar about a payment plan," I said.
"A payment plan?!" she screamed, her composure breaking completely. "With what money?! I don't have thirty thousand dollars! You know I don't have thirty thousand dollars! Mom said the trust pays for school!"
"The trust paid for school when you were fulfilling the requirements of the trust's conduct clause," I said. "Throwing a champagne bottle through a seven-tier wedding cake in front of one hundred and eighty guests is a violation of that clause."
"It was a joke!" Mia shrieked, her voice echoing through her open-plan Soho loft. "It was just champagne! Everyone was drinking! Mom said it wasn't a big deal! She said you were just being dramatic like you always are!"
"Mom doesn't sign the tuition checks, Mia. I do."
"You can't ruin my life over a cake!" she yelled, her hand slamming against a wooden surface on her end of the line. "I'm your sister! I'm twenty-two years old! You're an adult with a massive job and a rich husband! Why are you doing this to me?!"
"I am doing this," I said, keeping my tone measured, slow, and devastatingly precise, "because last night you stood in front of two hundred people and told me that my silence meant I was weak. You told everyone that my job was 'boring paperwork.' I am simply demonstrating to you what my boring paperwork actually does."
"I'll sue you!" Mia screamed, her tears turning into sharp, cornered rage. "I'll hire a lawyer! I'll tell the judge you're stealing Dad's money from us! I'll go to the news! I'll post the video of you locking us out!"
I let out a low, gentle laugh that cut through her threats like a razor.
"Mia," I said softly. "With what money will you hire a lawyer? Your corporate card was canceled at midnight. Your personal checking account has a balance of four hundred and twelve dollars and sixty cents—I checked the trust secondary disclosure portal twenty minutes ago. And as for the video..."
I paused, letting the silence stretch between us.
"The St. Regis security team has already provided me with forty minutes of raw, high-definition four-K footage from six different angles," I said. "It shows you grabbing the bottle, walking across the room with intent, screaming insults, smashing the cake, and laughing while our mother embraced you. If you file a lawsuit, that video will become public record within twenty-four hours."
"You... you recorded me?" she whispered, her voice shrinking into something tiny and small.
"The venue recorded you," I corrected her. "I simply bought the rights to the preservation files. Now, if you'll excuse me, my husband and I have a honeymoon flight to catch at two o'clock."
"Olivia, wait!" she begged, the anger evaporating completely, replaced by pure, unadulterated desperation. "Please! Rachel is packing her boxes right now! The building manager just handed me an eviction notice for thirty days! Where am I supposed to go?! Where am I supposed to live?!"
"There are four bedrooms in Mom's house in Connecticut," I said. "I believe your old room still has the pink wallpaper from high school. You can help her cook her twelve-dollar-a-day meals."
I ended the call.
I turned off my personal phone, slid it into the side pocket of my leather briefcase, locked the brass latch, and looked at Nathan.
"Is everything packed?" I asked.
Nathan stood up, grabbed our two leather carry-on bags, and smiled at me with a warmth that felt like summer after a long, dark winter.
May you like
"Everything is packed, Mrs. Vance," he said.
"Good," I said, putting on my sunglasses and adjusting the dark silk scarf around my neck. "Let's go to Italy."
