Chapter 6 - The Audit
The next morning, the sunlight hit the Atlanta skyline with a brilliant, golden intensity that made the glass-and-steel architecture look like jagged diamonds.
I sat at my minimalist walnut desk in the home office, a fresh cup of dark roast coffee steaming beside my laptop. On the screen, Marcus Vance had forwarded the initial preliminary audit report from the Fulton County title registry and the private banking investigators handling Julian’s botched bridge loan.
The scope of Julian’s financial collapse was not just a simple bad investment; it was an astronomical crater.
According to the documents, Julian hadn't just tried to leverage my penthouse. In his desperate attempt to cover his mounting debts, he had taken out three separate high-interest personal loans using my corporate tax ID number—another federal offense of identity theft. He had maxed out four credit cards in my name, drained a joint savings account I had foolishly left open for household utilities, and even attempted to sell off my late grandmother’s jewelry collection at a local pawn shop in Buckhead.
The pawn shop owner, recognizing the provenance of the antique diamond brooch, had thankfully flagged it and contacted my attorney directly two weeks ago—which was the exact catalyst that brought me rushing back to Atlanta ahead of schedule, even before I went to Boston.
My phone buzzed on the desk. It wasn't Julian this time. It was an unknown number with a Savannah area code.
I let it ring twice before swiping to answer.
“Veronica?”
The voice was shaky, devoid of all the haughty arrogance from yesterday afternoon. It was Beatrice.
“Beatrice,” I acknowledged neutrally, keeping my eyes fixed on the financial spreadsheets scrolling down my monitor.
“I’m... I’m calling from a payphone at a diner off Interstate 16,” she stammered, her voice thin and exhausted. “My cards have all been declined. Julian’s bank accounts have been frozen by the federal investigators. He... he was arrested this morning at his motel room by federal marshals.”
I didn't feel a surge of triumph. I didn't feel joy. I felt only a cold, profound sense of closure.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Beatrice,” I replied evenly. “Though given that he committed felony wire fraud, identity theft, and real estate forgery, it was entirely predictable.”
“Can’t you... can’t you drop the charges?” she pleaded, a desperate sob catching in her throat. “He’s my only son, Veronica! If you tell the prosecutor it was just a domestic misunderstanding, maybe they’ll let him go with probation! We can leave Atlanta, we won't ever bother you again!”
“Beatrice, listen to me very carefully,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying an absolute, razor-sharp finality. “Your son didn't commit a misunderstanding. He committed a series of calculated, deliberate crimes designed to strip me of everything I built with my own hands before I ever met him. He lied to you, he stole from me, and he tried to throw me out onto the street to cover his own financial incompetence. I am not his savior. I am his prosecutor.”
There was a long, shuddering gasp on the other end of the line.
“You’re a cold woman, Veronica,” Beatrice whispered, the old venom momentarily creeping back into her tone.
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“No, Beatrice,” I replied softly. “I’m just a woman who finally woke up.”
I disconnected the call, blocked the number with a single tap on my screen, and archived the contact for good.
