Chapter 4 - The Pressure Cooker
By Thursday morning, my mother had called me fourteen times.
I answered the fifteenth call. I made sure to sound out of breath and slightly frantic.
“Hello? Mom?” I said, letting my voice waver.
“Clara! Thank God,” Patricia snapped, the sweet veneer cracking slightly under the immense pressure of impending federal indictments. “Where have you been? We agreed you would sign the papers by Friday.”
“I know, I know,” I stammered. “I’m just… I’ve been reading them, and I’m so confused. There are so many numbers, Mom. I got scared. I don’t want to do anything illegal.”
“It’s not illegal, Clara!” she shouted, then quickly lowered her voice, attempting to pour honey over razor blades. “Sweetheart, listen to me. Your father is a very smart man. He knows what he’s doing. You just need to sign on the highlighted lines. That’s all. It’s just to protect the family.”
“I want to help,” I whimpered. “But I can’t do it alone. I have a friend. He’s… he’s a paralegal. He said he would come with me to look at the papers, just to make me feel better. Is that okay?”
There was a long, suffocating silence on the line. I could hear her breathing. I could almost hear the desperate calculations running through her mind. If they said no, the frightened daughter might run away again. If they said yes, they had to deal with a low-level legal assistant.
“Fine,” Patricia gritted out. “Bring your little friend. Tomorrow at 1:00 PM. We are meeting at Richard’s lawyer’s office downtown. Don’t be late, Clara. Our entire future depends on this.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
I lowered the phone, the pathetic tremble in my hands vanishing instantly.
Friday morning arrived with a cold, biting wind sweeping off Lake Michigan. I did not wear the frayed cardigan this time. I wore a tailored charcoal pinstripe suit that cost more than my parents’ first mortgage. My hair was pulled back into a severe, sleek twist. I wore stiletto heels that clicked against the marble floors like gunshots.
I looked exactly like the apex predator of the financial world that I was.
Leo walked beside me. He wore a midnight-blue Tom Ford suit, carrying a sleek, impenetrable black leather briefcase.
We arrived at the law offices of Sterling & Vance, a mid-tier firm that specialized in helping sleazy executives hide their assets. We took the elevator to the fortieth floor. The receptionist directed us to Conference Room B.
Before I opened the glass door, I looked at Leo.
“Showtime,” he murmured.
I pushed the door open.
My parents were seated at a massive mahogany table. Their lawyer, a sweaty, overweight man named Vance, sat beside them with a stack of neatly arranged documents.
When I walked in, Patricia and Richard didn't recognize me.
They stared at the powerful, commanding woman standing in the doorway, waiting for me to apologize and realize I had the wrong room. It took ten agonizing seconds for my mother’s eyes to track from my expensive Italian shoes, up my tailored suit, to the face of the daughter she thought she had broken.
The color drained from Patricia’s face so fast she looked like a corpse.
“Clara?” my father whispered, his voice cracking.
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“Hello, Richard,” I said, walking to the table and pulling out a leather chair. I didn't sit. I placed both hands on the polished wood and leaned forward. “You wanted my signature. Let’s get to work.”
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