Chapter 2 - The Audit
The silence in the grand parlor was absolute. You could hear the faint, steady drip of buttercream falling off my collar onto the hardwood floor.
Bernice’s hands began to shake violently. "What... what did you just say?"
"You heard me," I said, my voice smooth, quiet, and deadly steady. "Your late husband’s secondary holding company, Whitmore Properties LLC, defaulted on a fourteen-million-dollar balloon payment to Continental First Bank nine months ago. You’ve been quietly shuffling funds from your personal accounts to cover the interest, hiding the foreclosure risk from Thatcher and Odalis."
I reached into my handbag, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and calmly wiped the rest of the frosting from my cheeks and eyelashes.
"My firm was brought in to analyze the bank's non-performing debt portfolio," I continued, looking directly at the frozen crowd of relatives behind her. "I recognized the legal entity. So, using my personal investment firm, I purchased the senior debt note. As of last Tuesday, Bernice... I don't just own your debt. I am your primary landlord."
"You're lying!" Bernice shrieked, her voice cracking into a high-pitched, hysterical register. "You're lying! You don't have that kind of money! You're a mechanic's daughter!"
"I am a financial analyst who has compounded an eight-figure portfolio over seven years of private hedge consulting, Bernice," I replied softly. "I don't wear four-thousand-dollar blouses to tea, but I certainly buy commercial debt notes."
I turned on my heel, stepping gracefully over the smeared white cake on the floor.
Odalis rushed forward, her eyes wide with a mix of utter shock and profound respect. She thrust a stack of clean cloth napkins into my hands. "Simone... oh my god, I am so sorry. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Odalis," I said, wiping my hair as I walked toward the heavy oak front doors. I paused on the threshold, turning back to look at Bernice, who was currently clutching the marble fireplace mantel to keep her knees from buckling beneath her.
"Clean up the cake, Bernice," I called out over the crowd. "My auditors will be here on Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp."
I walked out into the cool afternoon air, my heart beating with a ferocious, steady rhythm.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in my car in the long, winding driveway of the estate. My hands were steady on the steering wheel, though my blouse was ruined. My phone rang on the passenger seat.
It was Thatcher.
"Hey, honey," his cheerful voice came through the car speakers. "Just wrapped up my Chicago conference early. I'm boarding a flight home now. How did tea with my mom go?"
May you like
I took a deep breath, looking back at the imposing white columns of the Whitmore estate in my rearview mirror.
"Thatcher," I said quietly. "You need to pull up your laptop before your flight takes off. We need to talk about your mother, your family’s money, and why she just threw a wedding cake in my face."
