Chapter 3 - The First Morning
The sun rose on January 1st over a frozen Chicago skyline, casting a pale, cold light across the glass windows of my downtown apartment. I hadn't slept a single minute.
My living room looked like a war room. Documents were spread across the glass coffee table, whiteboards were covered in organizational charts, and three different legal pads were filled with Naomi’s precise handwriting.
At 9:00 AM, my phone began to ring. The caller ID displayed my father’s cell phone number. I let it ring until it went to voicemail. Ten minutes later, Ashley called. Then Eleanor. Then my uncle David, Richard’s younger brother, who held a minor five-percent non-voting stake in the business.
I didn't answer any of them. Instead, I sat at my desk with a hot cup of black coffee and opened my laptop to review the preliminary payroll report Martin had sent over at dawn.
The reality of Carter Custom Interiors was far worse than even I had anticipated.
On the surface, the company was a prestigious high-end interior architectural firm with a thirty-year history, catering to million-dollar residential properties along the Gold Coast and commercial developments in the Loop. But underneath, my father had run the company into a mountain of debt.
He owed six hundred thousand dollars to primary lumber suppliers who were refusing to ship materials for our three largest ongoing projects.
He had delayed state payroll tax payments for two consecutive quarters.
And most dangerously, he had taken a one-million-dollar cash advance from a predatory high-interest private equity lender named Vance Capital to cover the shortfall from a failed hotel renovation project he had personally mismanaged.
My door chime sounded. I walked over and looked through the peep hole. Naomi was standing outside, holding two large paper bags from a nearby bakery and a thick leather briefcase.
I unlocked the door and let her in.
“You look like someone who just inherited a house that’s actively on fire,” Naomi said, setting the coffee and pastries on the kitchen counter.
“It’s not just on fire, Naomi,” I said, pulling out a stool. “The foundation is melted. Look at these tax numbers Martin sent.”
Naomi unpacked her laptop and opened a fresh file. “I saw them at six this morning. Richard wasn't just incompetent, Emily. He was criminally negligent. If we don't file a formal restructuring motion with the court by Friday, the state tax authorities could move to seize the operational accounts.”
“If they freeze the accounts, thirty-two employees lose their livelihoods,” I said, my knuckles white against my coffee cup. “Carpenters, designers, draftsmen—people who have been with this company for twenty years. People who trusted my father when he lied to them about their retirement matches.”
“Then we hit them hard and fast,” Naomi said coldly. “We don't give Richard time to rally his political friends or file an emergency injunction to contest the stock transfer. We file the ownership updates with the bank at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, freeze his signing authority, and call an all-hands employee meeting for one o'clock.”
“What about Vance Capital?” I asked. “The loan agreement Richard signed with them—it has a personal guarantee attached, but it also lists company assets as secondary collateral.”
Naomi smiled—a sharp, wolfish expression that reminded me why I was paying her six hundred dollars an hour.
“Vance Capital is run by Marcus Vance,” Naomi said. “Marcus is a shark, but he’s a rational shark. He knows Richard is a sinking ship. When I show him that you now hold controlling interest and that you have the personal liquid capital from your severance and investments to restructure the debt, he won't care about Richard. He’ll care about getting paid.”
My phone vibrated on the counter. A text message popped up from an unknown number. I picked it up and opened it.
It was a screenshot of a draft press release from my father’s personal PR contact.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: CARTER CUSTOM INTERIORS FACES HOSTILE TAKEOVER BY UNSTABLE FORMER EMPLOYEE.
Attached was a short message from Ashley: “You have twenty-four hours to undo this, Emily, or Dad releases this to the Chicago Tribune. You’ll never work in this city again.”
I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I handed the phone to Naomi.
Naomi read the text, let out a short laugh, and opened her briefcase. She pulled out a stamped legal document and laid it on the counter.
“Drafting a defamatory press release while under corporate audit,” Naomi murmured. “It’s like they’re trying to make my job easy. I’ll have a Cease and Desist served to Richard’s personal address by noon, accompanied by a notice that any public statement damaging the firm’s valuation will result in an immediate multi-million-dollar lawsuit against him personally.”
I looked out the window at the icy street below. The fear that had kept me awake for years—the constant terror of disappointing my father, of being cast out of the family, of being labeled the 'difficult' daughter—had completely vanished.
“Don't just send a Cease and Desist, Naomi,” I said softly.
May you like
Naomi looked up, her eyebrows raised. “What do you want to do?”
“Tell them if that press release goes out,” I said, my voice cold as winter, “I bring forward the forensic audit on Ashley’s corporate card expenses to the State Attorney’s fraud division by four o'clock today.”
