Chapter 6 - The Counterstrike
By Wednesday, the initial shock of the takeover had passed, and my family began their desperate, unhinged retaliation.
I was sitting in my new executive office—having completely cleared out my father’s mahogany furniture, cigars, and sports memorabilia, replacing them with clean white drafting tables and bright LED task lighting—when Naomi walked in, holding her tablet.
“Richard and Eleanor just filed an emergency lawsuit in Cook County Circuit Court,” Naomi announced, sitting down opposite me. “They’re claiming undue influence, financial coercion, and breach of fiduciary duty. They’ve retained Harold Vance—Arthur Vance’s sleazy cousin who specializes in aggressive high-conflict family litigation.”
“On what grounds?” I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the financial restructuring plan I was finalizing for the bank.
“They’re claiming that your loan agreement from September was an predatory instrument designed to take advantage of Richard’s 'temporary mental distress' following his health scare last summer,” Naomi said, reading off the filing. “They’ve attached an affidavit signed by Ashley stating that you manipulated company records to make the business appear insolvent.”
I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Dad’s 'health scare' was a mild case of gout brought on by drinking too much port at his country club. And Ashley wouldn't know a corporate balance sheet if it bit her on the nose.”
“I know that, and you know that,” Naomi said. “But Harold Vance’s strategy isn't to win in court, Emily. It’s to create enough legal noise and bad publicity to freeze our credit lines at First National Bank before Friday’s payroll clearing.”
Right on cue, my desk phone rang. The caller ID showed the name of our senior commercial loan officer at First National, Gregory Vance (no relation to Arthur, but a conservative banker who loathed legal volatility).
I picked up the receiver and pressed speaker.
“Emily,” Gregory’s cold, formal voice came through the speaker. “I just received a formal notice of pending litigation from your father’s legal counsel regarding the controlling shares of Carter Custom Interiors.”
“Good morning, Gregory,” I said calmly. “I assume Harold Vance sent you a copy of the emergency motion?”
“Yes, he did,” Gregory replied stiffly. “And under Section 12 of our commercial credit agreement, any active ownership dispute above twenty-five percent triggers an automatic temporary freeze on the company’s revolving credit line until the matter is adjudicated by a judge.”
“Gregory, you know as well as I do that motion is frivolous,” I said, leaning toward the phone. “The stock transfer was notarized, registered with the state, and verified by Martin Hale.”
“It doesn't matter if it’s frivolous, Emily,” Gregory said dryly. “The risk department requires clean title before we clear the forty-five-thousand-dollar payroll draw scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. If the freeze remains in effect, those funds will not be released.”
I closed my eyes for three seconds, feeling the cold knot of tension return to my stomach. This was Richard’s play. He knew he couldn't win the company back in court, but if he could freeze payroll for one single week, the workers would panic, the projects would stall, and the clients would tear up their contracts out of frustration. He was willing to burn the entire company to the ground just to prove that I couldn't run it without him.
“How long do I have to clear the freeze, Gregory?” I asked.
“Tomorrow at noon,” Gregory said. “If I don't have an order from a judge denying the temporary injunction or alternative liquid collateral deposited into an escrow account by twelve o'clock, the credit line freezes automatically.”
“Thank you, Gregory,” I said, and hung up the phone.
Naomi looked at me, her expression serious. “Forty-five thousand dollars in liquid cash by noon tomorrow? Your personal savings are almost completely locked up in the debt conversion from September, Emily.”
I stood up from my desk, walked over to the window, and looked out over the river.
“My savings are locked up,” I said softly, turning back to face Naomi. “But Ashley’s company SUV isn't.”
Naomi blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Ashley’s custom Range Rover—the one she’s been driving around town for two years—was purchased outright by Carter Custom Interiors as a 'company executive vehicle,'” I said, a cold smile spreading across my face. “The title is held directly by the firm. And so is the five-carat diamond brooch Dad bought Mom for their anniversary last year, which he logged under 'art acquisition for showroom display.'”
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I looked at Martin, who was standing near the door with his accounting tablet.
“Martin,” I said clearly. “Issue an immediate corporate repossession order for the Range Rover, and file a formal demand with the sheriff’s office for the return of all corporate physical assets currently located at my parents’ residence.”
