Chapter 6 - The Closing Net
The next morning, the harsh Chicago sunlight did nothing to warm the chill in my bones. I sat in a corner booth of a dingy diner three miles from my new apartment, staring blindly at a cup of black coffee that had grown completely cold.
The contents of Claire’s SD card were a complete blueprint of my destruction.
It wasn't just Project Oakridge. Folder after folder detailed every shady loophole, every questionable tax shelter, and every covert financial maneuver I had executed over the past decade. Claire hadn't acted out of blind jealousy when she executed her revenge; she had acted as a federal prosecutor. She had collected every receipt, tracked every wire transfer, and preserved every digital footprint with clinical, terrifying precision.
And sitting right at the center of the conspiracy was Marcus Vance.
Marcus. My supposed best friend, my primary business partner, the man who had shaken my hand at my wedding and clapped me on the back at cocktail parties while secretly positioning himself to swallow my entire real estate empire the moment I stumbled.
My phone buzzed loudly against the laminate table.
It was an incoming call from an unknown number.
I hesitated for a second, then swiped the screen. “Hello?”
“Grant,” Marcus’s smooth, familiar voice purred through the speaker, carrying that oily condescension I suddenly wanted to strangle. “I heard about the probate ruling. Brutal break with Claire’s will, man. Losing everything overnight... I can’t even imagine what kind of headspace you’re in.”
I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. “What do you want, Marcus?”
“Oh, nothing like that. Just checking on my old partner,” Marcus chuckled smoothly. “In fact, since you’re kind of out of the commercial game right now, I was thinking it might be a good time to buy out your remaining shares of Whitmore Properties for pennies on the dollar. You know, help you get back on your feet. Let’s say... fifty grand cash? Take it or leave it.”
Fifty grand. For a portfolio worth over twelve million dollars.
He was circling like a vulture, smelling blood in the water, ready to pick the carcass clean. He thought I was broken. He thought I had no cards left to play.
A dark, dangerous calm washed over me.
“Fifty grand, huh?” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “That’s a generous offer, Marcus. Why don't we discuss it in person? Meet me at the old waterfront warehouse on Pier 44 in one hour. Just you and me.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. Marcus laughed softly. “Pier 44? Dramatic, aren't we? Fine, Grant. See you in an hour.”
May you like
I hung up the phone, tossed a five-dollar bill onto the table, and walked out into the biting wind. I had Claire’s memory card tucked safely inside my breast pocket.
It was time to play my final hand.
