Chapter 8 - The Hidden Deed
The ballroom was in utter chaos. Whispers raged like wildfire among the donors. Several board members were already standing up, looking at Evelyn and Madison with cold disdain.
I stood near the front of the stage, holding my wrap, watching my father transform before my eyes.
"Dad," I called out, my voice carrying in the quiet tension of the room. "I asked you earlier why Evelyn was asking about my mother's studio."
My father lowered the microphone slightly, his brow furrowing as he looked down at me. "What do you mean, Claire?"
"You told me she was helping with tax paperwork," I said, stepping closer to the stage so everyone could hear. "She told Madison that the studio wasn't going to be mine much longer. What did she actually do with the paperwork, Dad?"
My father slowly turned toward Evelyn. His eyes were no longer those of a passive man trying to keep the peace. They were sharp, searching, and filled with deep suspicion.
"Evelyn," my father said, his voice dropping an octave over the microphone. "What paperwork did you submit to my legal team last week?"
Evelyn swallowed hard. She clutched her designer handbag to her chest, backing away half a step toward the stage stairs. "Thomas, this is ridiculous. It's private estate management. We can discuss this at home—"
"What paperwork, Evelyn?" my father demanded, his voice ringing like a gavel against metal.
Before Evelyn could answer, a man in a sharp charcoal suit stood up from Table 3 near the front. It was Arthur Pendelton, my father’s senior estate attorney and a lifelong friend of my mother’s family.
Arthur pulled a tablet from his leather briefcase, his face grim.
"Thomas," Arthur spoke up, stepping into the aisle so the entire room could hear him. "I was going to bring this to your attention on Monday morning, but given what is happening tonight, you need to know now."
Evelyn’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "Arthur, don't you dare—"
"Quiet, Evelyn," Arthur snapped with quiet authority. He looked up at my father on stage. "Last Tuesday, Evelyn brought a set of property transfer documents to my associate's office. She claimed she had your power of attorney and submitted an application to rezone the studio property behind your home from a historic arts landmark to a commercial development parcel."
A collective gasp swept through the room.
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"Rezone it?" my father asked, his voice barely audible through the speakers. "For what?"
Arthur swiped his finger across his tablet screen. "She filed an intent to demolish the studio building next month to construct a three-story corporate office for 'Cross Interior Designs'—and she listed herself as the sole 100% owner of the newly created land parcel, using a forged signature of your consent."
