Chapter 3 - The Monday Morning Avalanche
By Monday morning, my phone had fifty-two missed calls from Gavin and sixteen from Meredith. I hadn't answered a single one.
I was sitting in the sleek, glass-walled conference room of Summit Development Alliance, sipping black coffee. Across from me sat Marcus Thorne, one of the most ruthless family law attorneys in the state, whom I had retained a month ago.
“He’s panicking,” Marcus said, looking at the call logs I forwarded to him. “The catering company is threatening a lawsuit, the estate owner locked him out, and he spent the weekend sleeping on his mother’s couch.”
“Good,” I replied, my voice devoid of any pity. “What about the promissory note?”
“That is the masterpiece, Stella,” Marcus smiled, sliding a pristine folder across the table.
When Gavin had signed the $300,000 promissory note, he believed he was borrowing money from my parents. What he didn't read in the fine print was that the lender was a private holding company—a holding company I entirely owned. He had legally bound himself to repay $300,000 for "anticipated business and lifestyle expenses," with immediate collection permitted upon default of his current leases.
At 10:00 AM, my assistant buzzed the intercom. “Ms. Harrell, a Gavin Harrell is at the front desk. He’s demanding to see a leasing assistant. He looks... very unwell.”
“Send him in,” I said.
Gavin stormed into the executive suite, his tie undone, his eyes bloodshot. He froze when he saw me sitting at the head of a massive mahogany table, flanked by a high-powered attorney, looking out over the city skyline.
“Stella? What are you doing in this office?” he demanded, confusion warring with his panic. “Where is your boss? I need you to call your parents right now. The bank froze my accounts, and the catering company is suing me. I need the loan money they promised!”
“There is no loan money, Gavin,” I said calmly, leaning back in my leather chair. “And I don't have a boss. I own this firm.”
Gavin stared at me, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain desperately tried to process the reality of the room. The mahogany table. The expensive art. The sheer authority I commanded.
“You... you’re a leasing assistant,” he stammered.
“I let you believe I was a leasing assistant because your fragile ego couldn't handle a wife who out-earned you,” I corrected him. “I built a real estate empire while you built a mountain of credit card debt to impress people who don't care about you.”
Marcus slid a thick stack of papers across the table. “Mr. Harrell, you are being served with divorce papers. Furthermore, you are officially in default on the $300,000 promissory note you signed. My client is calling in the debt.”
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“I didn't get any money!” Gavin yelled, his face turning purple.
“You signed a legal guarantee of existing lifestyle debt,” Marcus replied smoothly. “It’s airtight. You owe the holding company three hundred thousand dollars. Have your lawyer contact my office. The exit is behind you.”
