Chapter 3 - Poison in the Wine
The moment my office door clicked shut, Richard dropped the mask.
His shoulders expanded, his chest puffed out, and he slammed his palm onto my desk, rattling the antique brass lamp.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing out there?” he hissed, his voice dropping into that familiar, venomous register that used to make me cower in the hallway as a teenager. “Do you have any idea who Douglas Vance is? Do you know what this wedding means for this family?”
I walked around the desk, deliberately taking my seat in the high-backed leather chair, refusing to stand before him like a naughty child.
“I know Douglas Vance owns three luxury high-rises on the Scioto Mile,” I said evenly. “And I know you have absolutely no authority to promise him structural alterations to my property.”
“*Your* property?” Richard laughed, a harsh, barking sound without a drop of humor. “You arrogant little bitch. You think because your name is printed on a piece of paper that you did this alone? Who gave you the bloodline? Who gave you the roof over your head for twenty-five years? Who taught you how to calculate an invoice?”
“You threw me out into a freezing winter because I wouldn’t give Chloe my culinary school fund,” I replied, every word measured and sharp.
“And it made you tough, didn't it?” he snapped, leaning across my desk until I could smell the stale coffee and peppermint on his breath. “You should be thanking me! Look at this place! If I had coddled you like Chloe, you’d still be frying eggs in a strip mall. I created you, Veronica. And you owe this family.”
“I don’t owe you a single copper penny, Dad. In fact, you filed a frivolous *lis pendens* against my LLC yesterday. You actually had the nerve to claim Grandma’s five-hundred-dollar check was seed equity.”
Richard didn't flinch. He didn't blink. A slow, greasy smirk spread across his lips.
“You saw that, did you?” He straightened up, smoothing the lapels of his blazer. “Then you should know how this game works. Douglas Vance’s firm isn't just funding Bradley’s wedding. They are preparing a sixteen-million-dollar commercial portfolio buyout across the Short North. Chloe isn't just marrying Bradley—she’s our ticket into the Vance Development Fund.”
The pieces began to fall into place with sickening clarity.
“You’re broke,” I whispered.
Richard’s smirk vanished.
“You lost the house in Dublin,” I continued, watching his eyes dart toward the closed door. “You lost your consulting firm after the 2020 crash. You don’t have a dime to your name. Chloe didn't get into private school; she’s drowning in credit card debt. And you promised Douglas Vance that Chloe brought prime commercial real estate to the table as her family dowry.”
“I didn't promise him anything that isn't rightfully ours!” Richard snarled, his voice trembling with cornered rage. “Douglas needs this parcel to complete his city block acquisition. If Chloe brings the *L’Aurore* leasehold into the marriage trust, Douglas makes me managing partner of the retail development. We all rise together. Chloe gets a mansion in New Albany. You get an executive culinary title. And the family name is preserved.”
“And if I refuse?”
Richard leaned back, pulling his smartphone from his pocket. He tapped the screen and held it up to my face.
It was a text message thread with Arthur Pendleton, my landlord.
*Richard:* "Arthur, per our discussion, Veronica is transitioning operations to the primary Vance Trust ahead of the nuptials. Renewal assignment paperwork will be signed Friday."
*Arthur Pendleton:* "Bring the signed corporate consent to the wedding. If family consensus is reached, the lease transfer is acceptable."
“Arthur is eighty-two,” Richard murmured, his voice dripping with triumphant malice. “He’s known me since I was thirty. He doesn't read the fine print; he trusts the Vance name. You have three weeks until the wedding. You will smile. You will cook. You will host the Vance family like royalty. And during the reception toast, you will sign the partnership transfer agreement in front of every judge, developer, and politician in Columbus.”
“And if I don't?”
May you like
“Then the *lis pendens* stays on your title,” Richard whispered. “Your lines of credit freeze tomorrow morning. Your suppliers cut your net-thirty terms by Friday. And Arthur Pendleton cancels your commercial lease option on grounds of contested title dispute. You’ll be out on the street again, Veronica. Just like you were at twenty-five. Only this time, you won’t have youth on your side.”
***
