Chapter 2 - The Freeze at Bel-Air
By three o'clock on Christmas afternoon, the sun had turned a harsh, blinding gold, reflecting off the glass towers of West Los Angeles.
Inside my quiet, sunlit penthouse overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, I sat on my cream velvet sofa, drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea. The apartment was pristine, silent, and entirely mine. Arthur and I had bought this place twenty years ago before we built the massive estate in Pasadena. It was my sanctuary—the one place Claire had never been allowed to bring her loud, shallow, clout-chasing friends.
On the coffee table lay a thick black leather binder prepared by Marcus Hale. It contained the complete forensic financial audit of every dollar I had spent on Claire and Evan over the past thirty-six months.
The totals were staggering:
Nearly two and a half million dollars in three years.
I had given them enough money to build five legitimate businesses, buy two modest homes outright, and secure Noah’s college education ten times over. And what had they done with it? They had bought French designer clothes, leased supercar fleets, thrown fifty-thousand-dollar parties for Hollywood hangers-on, and treated me like an unwanted house servant who was expected to pay for the privilege of sitting in the corner.
My personal cell phone—the secondary line that only Marcus and my senior executive team possessed—rang.
"Eleanor," Marcus said. "I'm looking at the real-time activity reports. Evan has attempted to call Hale & Associates fourteen times in the last twenty minutes. Claire has sent eleven emails to your corporate office claiming that you are experiencing a 'psychotic break' and demanding that our legal team hand over access to the trust."
A cold, bitter smile touched my lips. "A psychotic break? Is that what they're calling a mother finally opening her eyes?"
"They've also attempted to transfer eighty thousand dollars out of the business payroll account for Aura Living," Marcus added. "The bank flagged it, blocked it, and froze the entire account under suspicion of unauthorized corporate liquidation."
"Good," I said smoothly. "Has the landlord of the Bel-Air house been notified?"
"Yes. Richard Sterling—the owner—was quite shocked. He informed me that Evan told him last month that they were planning to buy the house outright in January using 'family trust funds.' Richard was under the impression that Evan was a managing partner at Vance Logistics."
I let out a soft, ironical laugh. "Evan hasn't worked a real job since he was twenty-eight. When Arthur died, Evan convinced Claire that he was a 'creative genius' who just needed time to land his big break. I gave him a fifty-thousand-dollar stipend to start a documentary film about supply chains. Do you know what he spent it on, Marcus?"
"I can guess."
"A trips to Miami, a Rolex watch, and a customized golf cart," I said coldly. "He never shot a single foot of film."
"Well, he’s shooting reality now," Marcus said. "The tow trucks have pulled both vehicles from the Bel-Air driveway. The party guests have all left—several of them took Ubers because Evan couldn't pay for their private town car services. And Lorraine... well, Lorraine is currently sitting on her suitcases on the front porch because the hotel reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel was canceled an hour ago."
I felt a slight pinch of sadness in my chest, but it wasn't for Evan, Claire, or Lorraine. It was for Noah.
"Where is Noah?" I asked, my voice softening for the first time.
"My investigator on site reports that Noah is inside with his nanny, Maria," Marcus replied. "Maria is the only person on their staff whose salary was paid directly through your personal trust. I have already instructed Maria to stay with Noah, keep him fed, safe, and away from the chaos. Her paycheck is fully guaranteed by my office."
"Thank you, Marcus," I breathed, closing my eyes. "Maria is a good woman. She's the only one in that house who actually cares for my grandson."
"What is your next move, Eleanor?"
I stood up from the sofa, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the deep blue waters of the Pacific.
"Tomorrow morning is December 26th," I declared, my voice hardening into pure titanium. "The corporate offices of Vance Global Logistics open at eight a.m. I want a full board meeting called for nine. It’s time to clean out the weeds in my executive team who allowed Evan to use our corporate lines for his fake production company."
"And Claire?" Marcus asked.
"Claire will realize very soon that the world does not owe her a velvet rope," I said. "When she's ready to apologize—not for losing my money, but for breaking her mother's heart—she knows where my attorney's office is."
Just then, my penthouse intercom chimed sharply.
I walked over to the marble wall panel and glanced at the camera feed from the ground floor lobby.
Parked illegally in the red zone outside my Santa Monica building was a yellow taxi.
May you like
Stepping out of the cab, looking frantically up at the thirty-story tower, was Claire. Her white designer dress was wrinkled, her makeup smudged from crying, her blonde hair messy in the ocean wind. Behind her, stepping out of the cab with his shirt untucked and his face dark with rage, was Evan.
They had come to demand their allowance.
