Chapter 14 - The Uninvited Guest at the Office
Two weeks after the gala, the autumn leaves had turned from brilliant copper to a deep, rotting brown, swept across the concrete sidewalks by icy gusts of wind sweeping down from the Hudson River. My real estate law firm, *Vance & Associates*, was thriving. Located in a sleek, restored brick loft in Tribeca, the office had quickly become known as the premier defense consultancy for victims of predatory title fraud and corporate identity theft.
I sat at my custom walnut desk, reviewing a stack of closing documents for a community housing project, when the frosted glass door of my private office chimed softly.
"Claire?"
Miriam poked her head into the room, her expression unusually tense, carrying a heavy manila folder under her arm.
"Tell me that's not another emergency injunction," I said without looking up from the paperwork, though a small smile played at the corners of my mouth. "Because my desk is currently buried under three hundred pages of municipal zoning permits."
"Worse than an injunction," Miriam said, stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind her. She walked over and dropped the manila folder squarely on top of my zoning permits. "It's personal."
I finally looked up, narrowing my eyes at the folder. "Define personal."
"Chloe is in the city," Miriam stated flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. "And she's currently sitting down in the downstairs reception area, refusing to leave until you agree to speak with her."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. The steady hum of the office air conditioner suddenly sounded loud in the sudden silence. I leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair, feeling the solid, unyielding pressure of the titanium rods against my spine.
"Chloe," I repeated, the name tasting like sour milk. "My dear sister, whose dream wedding was funded by attempting to render me homeless while I was comatose."
"That's her," Miriam confirmed grimly. "She looks... rough, Claire. Designer clothes are gone, replaced by a cheap department store coat. No makeup, hair pulled back in a messy elastic band. She's been camped out in the lobby for over an hour, telling the receptionist that she won't leave until you give her five minutes of your time."
"And why didn't security throw her out into the street?" I asked calmly.
"Because," Miriam sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "she started crying. Not quiet crying—full-on hysterical sobbing about how her life is completely ruined, how her ex-husband's family destroyed her reputation in Connecticut, and how you're her only remaining lifeline. The receptionist didn't have the heart to toss her, so she called me instead."
I sat in silence for a long moment, tapping my fountain pen against the edge of the walnut desk. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*
"Send her up," I said quietly.
Miriam’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Claire, are you out of your mind? You don't owe her a single second of your day. She was a willing co-conspirator in the attempt to steal your home! If your father hadn't rushed the paperwork before the anesthetics wore off, you would have woken up paralyzed *and* roofless."
"I know what she did, Miriam," I replied, my voice chillingly calm. "Which is precisely why I want her to come up here. I want her to see this office. I want her to see this view. I want her to understand, down to her very bones, the exact mathematical equation of what her wedding cost."
May you like
Miriam stared at me for a beat, a slow, knowing smirk gradually replacing her look of professional concern. "Alright. But I'm staying right outside the door. If she so much as raises her voice, I'm having building security drag her out by her cheap ankles."
"Fair enough," I said. "Send her in."
