Chapter 3 - The Final Warning Note
The clinking of silverware stopped completely.
Vincent held the heavy gold pocket watch in the palm of his hand, staring at the yellow sticky note attached to the back.
Payment toward arrears. Final warning.
He looked at Arthur. The older man’s face was ashen. He was trembling so violently that his water glass rattled against the table.
“Arthur,” Vincent asked, his voice thick with confusion and rising anger. “What arrears? What does this mean?”
Arthur refused to look up. He stared at his trembling hands, shame radiating from his hunched shoulders.
“It’s nothing, Vincent,” Arthur choked out. “Just a misunderstanding.”
“It is not a misunderstanding!” Rosalind snapped, pushing her chair back. She stood up, her red silk dress rustling aggressively. “He owes my father money. I simply collected collateral until the debt is settled. It’s business, Vincent.”
Vincent slowly turned toward her.
“Your father?” Vincent repeated.
Rosalind’s father, Marcus Vance, sat three chairs down. He was a wealthy real estate developer who had recently invested in Vincent’s new restaurant locations. Marcus took a slow sip of his wine, looking entirely unbothered by the spectacle.
“Arthur has been living in an apartment building I own for the past five years,” Marcus stated smoothly, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “His pension hasn’t covered the rent increases. He’s behind. My daughter was just doing me a favor by collecting what was owed while he was here.”
I felt sick. They had invited this proud, hardworking man to a celebration dinner just to humiliate him and strip him of his family heirloom.
Vincent looked down at the watch in his hand.
“Arthur,” Vincent said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling? I would have paid your rent. I would have bought the building.”
Arthur finally looked up. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Because you’ve already done enough for me, son,” Arthur whispered. “And because Mr. Vance told me if I asked you for money, he would pull his investments and bankrupt your new restaurants. I couldn’t let my problems destroy your future.”
Vincent’s breath hitched. He looked at Marcus, then at Rosalind.
“You threatened him,” Vincent stated, the realization hardening his features. “You used my expansion as a weapon to silence the man who taught me how to cook.”
“We were protecting your assets!” Rosalind argued, stepping toward him. “Vincent, you are too soft. You let these people bleed you dry with their sob stories. My father and I are trying to build an empire for our future!”
Vincent didn’t shout. He didn’t curse.
He carefully peeled the yellow sticky note off the back of the watch.
Underneath the note, tucked inside the casing of the watch, was a small, folded piece of carbon paper.
Vincent frowned. He opened the watch casing and pulled the paper out.
I stood close enough to see it. It was a faded blue receipt.
“What is this?” Vincent asked, unfolding it.
Rosalind’s face instantly went white. She took a panicked step forward, reaching for the paper. “Vincent, give that back. That’s private.”
Vincent stepped out of her reach. He read the receipt, his eyes scanning the faded type.
His expression shifted from anger to absolute, terrifying stillness.
“This is a transfer of ownership,” Vincent whispered, the words echoing in the silent room.
He looked up, staring directly at Marcus Vance.
“This is a receipt for the deed to my original restaurant,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Dated three weeks ago. Why does Rosalind have a receipt transferring the deed of my flagship property into your name, Marcus?”
Marcus Vance set his wine glass down. The smug smile faded from his lips.
Before Marcus could answer, I saw the signature at the bottom of the blue receipt.
I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.
Vincent heard me. He looked at me, seeing the shock in my eyes.
“Emily?” Vincent asked. “What is it?”
My hands shook violently. I pointed at the sprawling, messy signature at the bottom of the transfer document.
“That signature,” I whispered, terrified of the powerful men in the room but unable to stay silent. “That’s not your signature, Mr. Hale.”
Vincent looked closer at the document.
May you like
“I know,” Vincent said coldly.
“It’s my mother’s signature,” I breathed.
