Chapter 12 - The Summoning of the Parasites
The heavy oak doors of the downtown legal offices of *Sterling, Vance & Associates*—soon to be renamed—echoed with the sharp, nervous clicking of expensive heels. Brandon Vance, my older brother, strode through the lobby with the practiced swagger of a man who still believed his charm could talk its way out of a burning building. His tailored Armani suit, though slightly wrinkled from being worn three days in a row without a dry-cleaner trip, was still designed to intimidate.
Beside him walked his wife, Cynthia, her face caked in designer makeup that couldn't quite mask the dark circles under her eyes. She clutched a vintage Birkin bag like a shield against an invisible enemy.
"Where is she?" Brandon demanded, striding up to the reception desk where a calm, professional receptionist sat typing away on her laptop. "I need to speak to Rachel Vance immediately. Tell her Brandon is here. We have a family emergency, and this little stunt has gone on long enough."
The receptionist didn't even look up immediately. She finished typing a sentence, hit the enter key with a soft click, and then slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze was cool, detached, and completely unimpressed by Brandon's expensive tailoring.
"Mr. Vance," the receptionist said smoothly, her voice carrying across the quiet, minimalist lobby. "Rachel is currently in the executive boardroom conducting a structural audit with the senior partners. She is not taking personal calls."
"Personal calls?" Brandon scoffed, stepping closer to the counter and slamming his palm down on the marble surface. "Listen to me, sweetheart—this isn't a social visit. That's my sister in there. She’s holding up our corporate disbursement funds. Our accounts have been frozen, our credit cards are declined, and we have vendors threatening legal action. Tell her to release the funds *now* or there will be serious consequences."
"Consequences?"
The voice didn't come from the receptionist. It came from the arched entryway behind them.
Brandon and Cynthia spun around. Standing there was Marcus Jenkins, looking impeccably sharp in a charcoal-grey bespoke suit, holding a leather-bound portfolio under one arm. Behind him stood two corporate security guards, their arms crossed, their expressions as impassive as granite statues.
"Marcus," Brandon forced a tight, oily smile, trying to recover his footing. "Thank God. You’re working with her, right? You know how this works. Rachel is clearly having some kind of emotional breakdown—probably postpartum stress or empty-nest syndrome, honestly, who knows with her—and she’s locking up the family capital. You need to talk some sense into her. As the eldest son, I have legal precedence over—"
"You don't have precedence over a stack of unpaid promissory notes, Brandon," Marcus interrupted, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. He stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away, looking down his nose at my brother. "And you certainly don't have legal authority in a building that your sister now owns outright."
Cynthia’s jaw dropped. "Owns? What are you talking about? Our father built this firm! This is our birthright!"
"Your father built the firm, yes," Marcus replied calmly, opening his portfolio and sliding a single sheet of heavy cardstock across the marble counter. "And when the firm was six million dollars in the red three years ago due to embezzlement, offshore gambling debts, and your collective inability to live within your means, who do you think bought out the primary creditors to keep the doors open?"
Brandon glanced down at the paper. His eyes scanned the financial figures, the signatures, the notarized stamps. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"No," Brandon choked out. "That... that's impossible. Rachel bought our debt? With what money? She was a freelance artist!"
"She was a freelance artist," Marcus corrected him with a faint, chilling smile, "who quietly built a digital design agency that currently handles branding for three Fortune 500 tech companies. While you were busy posting pictures of yacht parties on Instagram paid for by her wire transfers, she was working twenty-hour days, investing wisely, and quietly buying up every single debt instrument your mother and siblings used as leverage."
Marcus closed the portfolio with a soft *thud*.
"Rachel isn't having a breakdown, Brandon. She’s having an awakening. And right now, she’s upstairs reviewing the liquidation timeline for this very building."
Cynthia let out a sharp gasp and grabbed Brandon’s arm, her fingernails digging deep into his fabric. "Brandon... do something! If they liquidate, we have nothing! We don't even have a house!"
Brandon looked like he wanted to punch a wall, but the presence of the two security guards kept his fists glued to his sides. His chest heaved with suppressed rage and sheer, unadulterated panic.
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"I want to see her," Brandon snarled, his voice dropping an octave. "I want to look her in the eye and tell her she can't do this to her own flesh and blood."
"You can try," Marcus said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the grand double doors at the end of the hallway. "The boardroom is open. But I should warn you, Brandon—she’s not the girl who used to bake your birthday cakes and clean up your messes anymore. Step carefully."
