Chapter 4 - Morning After the Storm
The morning sun didn't bring warmth to Boston; it brought a blinding, merciless glare that bounced off the fresh layer of snow and turned every windowpane into a sheet of polished silver.
True to my word, I stood at the two-burner stove in the narrow kitchen flipping silver-dollar pancakes while Margot sat at the table with a cartoon box of cereal balanced beside her plate, watching a Saturday morning dinosaur cartoon on the small portable television I’d bought at a yard sale three years ago.
The smell of butter and maple syrup filled the small apartment, crowding out the lingering memory of cedar and expensive potpourri from the day before.
"More chocolate chips, Daddy," she demanded, pointing a small plastic spoon at the batter. "You promised as many as I want."
"Rule of pancakes: if they don't look like chocolate chip cookies, you're not doing it right," I agreed, dumping another handful of semisweet morsels into the sizzling iron pan.
The doorbell rang at 8:45 AM.
It wasn't the polite, double-tap chime of our upstairs neighbor dropping off a newspaper. It was a heavy, sustained pounding—three aggressive knocks followed by the metallic jingle of a key ring being rattled against the brass lock.
Margot froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes darted toward the front door. "Is that... is that Grandpa?"
"No," I said, my voice steady as I turned off the burner. "Grandpa doesn't know where the spare key is. Stay here and watch your show, honey. I’ll be right back."
I walked down the narrow, creaking hallway, the floorboards groaning beneath my socks, and pulled the wooden door open without unlatching the brass chain.
Cecilia was standing on the narrow landing of the third-floor landing.
She looked entirely unravelling. Her hair, usually blown out into a cascade of effortless waves, was pulled back into a frantic, lopsided ponytail held together by a black elastic band. Her designer cashmere coat was missing a button, and she was shivering—not just from the thirty-degree chill coming off the stairwell, but from a trembling, hyperventilating rage that made her jaw twitch.
"Open this door, Desmond," she hissed, her voice cracking as she shoved her palm against the wood. "Open it right now before I call the cops and tell them you’re holding me out."
I unlatched the chain and swung the door open halfway, keeping my weight balanced on my good foot. I didn't invite her in. I stood in the doorway like a bouncer blocking access to an exclusive club.
"You're out of uniform, Cis," I said mildly. "Where’s the Aston Martin? Did Preston have to take the subway?"
Cecilia’s face contorted into something ugly and primitive. She lunged forward, grabbing the lapel of my grey cotton hoodie with both hands, her fingernails digging through the fabric into my skin.
"What did you do?" she screamed, spitting the words into my face. "What the hell did you do to the accounts? I went to the corporate office at six a.m. because the payroll portal was locked! The bank told me our credit line has been suspended indefinitely! Our primary suppliers in Munich just canceled three container shipments because the wire transfer bounced! AuraVitalis is going into receivership by Monday morning if those funds aren't released!"
"Then I suggest you call your accountant," I said, my voice dropping an octave, cold and flat. "Oh, wait. You don't have one. Wallace was your guarantor, and Wallace’s credit is currently lower than a stray dog's."
"You’re lying," she sobbed, her fingers trembling against my chest. The manicured facade was completely gone now, stripped away by the terrifying reality of impending insolvency. "You’re an administrative assistant! You make fifty grand a year! You live in this—this rat trap! You can't just freeze an empire! Dad is a titan in real estate! He built this family!"
"Dad built his entire lifestyle on a forty-year lie," I said, gently but firmly peeling her fingers off my hoodie one by one. "He lost his last commercial project in 2021. Did he mention that when he bought his new golf club membership? Did he tell you that every single expansion of AuraVitalis over the last three years was funded by silent capital injections from the Vance Family Trust—which, in case you missed Jonathan’s monologue yesterday, I own completely?"
Cecilia staggered back against the peeling wallpaper of the hallway, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "No... no, that's not... Mom said grandfather’s money was gone. She said it was lost in the tech crash."
"Mom lied to protect Dad's ego," I said. "Because if anyone found out that Wallace Vance was a bankrupt failure living off his youngest son’s inheritance, the country club committee might have stopped inviting him to charity golf tournaments."
A heavy footstep echoed on the stairs below us.
Another figure hove into view around the corner of the second-floor landing, breathing hard, his overcoat unbuttoned and flapping around his knees.
Wallace.
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He looked ten years older than he had yesterday. His face was gray, his skin hanging loose around his jawline like a poorly fitted suit, his gray hair standing up in unruly tufts where he’d clawed at it through the night. He reached the top of the landing, gripping the wooden banister with one hand, his chest heaving as he stared at me with a mixture of incandescent rage and desperate, pathetic pleading.
"Desmond," he rasped, his voice cracked and gravelly. "Desmond, son... let's talk about this."
