Chapter 2 - The Audit
By midnight, the Mercer family flight was wheels-up toward the Amalfi Coast, a lavish Mediterranean getaway funded by credit lines Nathan swore were tied to "high-risk venture capital returns." In reality, every single luxury—from the first-class tickets to the rose-gold suitcase—was backed by my personal trust and the silent commercial real estate portfolio my father had left me, which Nathan managed under strict proxy oversight.
Or rather, had managed.
I sat at the kitchen island of our sprawling suburban home, the house Nathan loved to brag about buying entirely on his own merit. The lights were off, save for the blue glow of my laptop screen.
Marcus had been thorough. Within three hours of my call, the emergency protocols had locked down every digital asset, credit line, and corporate subsidiary connected to Nathan’s name. His corporate AMEX cards were already declining at the airport duty-free shops across the Atlantic.
My phone buzzed against the marble countertop.
An incoming call: Nathan.
I let it ring out. It went to voicemail. Ten seconds later, another call. Then a text message flashed across the screen: “Baby, something is wrong with my cards. The airline lounge wouldn't accept my AMEX, and Mom is freaking out. Did something happen with our joint billing cycle?”
I stared at the screen, a cold smile touching the corners of my lips. Panic. That was the first emotion Nathan had felt that wasn't self-congratulatory pride in months.
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I picked up the phone, tapped out a calm, reassuring reply, and sent it: “Don’t worry about it, honey. Focus on your emergency surgery. I’m sure it’s just a bank glitch. I’ll look into it in the morning.”
Let him land in Italy and try to check into a five-star cliffside resort with frozen cards and no cash. Let Diane explain to her high-society friends why her son’s platinum card was rejected at the espresso bar. The trap had snapped shut, and the teeth were just beginning to sink in.
