Chapter 5 - The Corporate Fortress
While my father was pleading his case in a downtown law office, I was standing on the breezy second-floor balcony of Number Seven, watching the pelicans dive into the emerald-green surf of the Gulf.
The air was warm, smelling of salt spray and sun-baked pine needles. My laptop was resting on the teak patio table beside a cup of black coffee. Every notification light was blinking, but I had set my phone to Do Not Disturb for everyone except Marcus Vance and the local property management team I had retained to oversee the rentals.
A soft knock sounded at the front door downstairs.
I walked down the open-riser wooden staircase, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt and pulling the door open. Standing on the porch was Mrs. Gable, one of the two long-time cleaning supervisors who had serviced Aunt Margaret’s properties for over fifteen years. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her apron, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright.
"Hannah," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Is it... is it true? What they’re saying in town?"
"Depends on what you’re hearing, Mrs. Gable," I replied with a warm, reassuring smile, stepping aside to let her in out of the midday heat. "Come on in. Can I get you some water?"
"They’re saying Mr. Caleb isn't in charge anymore. That Margaret left everything to you through the company," she said, walking hesitantly into the cool, air-conditioned living room. "And... they’re saying he was taking money from the repair funds."
I gestured for her to sit on the slipcovered sofa, taking a seat across from her.
"It’s true," I said simply, keeping my voice level. "Margaret created Seagrass Property Holdings before she passed. Every house is secure. And as of yesterday, the company audit has identified all those phantom repair bills that were being funneled into Caleb's accounts."
Mrs. Gable let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as if a forty-pound weight had finally been lifted from her back.
"Thank God," she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek with the corner of her apron. "For months, we were terrified to speak up. Caleb told us that if we didn't sign those receipts showing higher cleaning costs and kick the difference back to his consulting firm, he’d replace us with a corporate cleaning service from Tampa. We have families to feed, Hannah. We couldn't afford to lose these contracts."
"You aren't losing anything," I said firmly, leaning forward to place a hand over her weathered fingers. "In fact, starting next week, your team’s base rate is going up twenty percent, and we’re issuing back-pay adjustments for every invoice where Caleb shortchanged your hours. You and your women built these houses' reputation, Mrs. Gable. Not Caleb. And under this company, you'll be treated like the professionals you are."
For a long moment, the older woman just stared at me, her expression a mix of profound relief and lingering disbelief. Then, slowly, a genuine smile broke across her face.
"Margaret knew what she was doing when she called you," she said softly. "She always said you had her spine."
After Mrs. Gable left, feeling lighter than she had in years, I returned to the patio and opened my laptop.
The corporate dashboard of Seagrass Property Holdings glowed brightly against the afternoon shade. All eight properties were green across the board—occupancy rates were high, maintenance logs were verified, and the unauthorized bank hooks Caleb had installed were permanently severed.
My phone buzzed against the teak wood. A single text message from an unknown number—Caleb.
May you like
Please, Hannah. Just talk to me. Dad says you won't take his calls either. We can fix this.
I looked at the message for three seconds. Then, without a word of hesitation, I tapped my screen, blocked the number permanently, and closed the laptop lid.
