Chapter 3 - THE CATERING TRAP
Darcy’s corner office was quiet, save for the steady hum of a commercial laser printer spitting out reams of legal petitions. Darcy herself looked like a general staging a siege: dark tailored suit, hair pulled into an immaculate chignon, two steaming mugs of black espresso resting on a glass desk covered in red folders.
“Drink,” Darcy commanded, nudging a mug toward me. “Because by noon, you’re going to blow a family empire to smithereens.”
I collapsed into the leather armchair, the warmth of the coffee seeping into my stiff hands. “Tell me what the accountant found.”
Darcy leaned forward, her expression turning lethal. “Julian thought he was an investment genius. Over the last eighteen months, he forged your signature on an equity line of credit against this condo—a condo purchased entirely with your premarital inheritance. He pulled out $420,000 to bankroll his failing boutique logistics firm. When that tanked, he funneled the remaining $180,000 into an overseas account under Fiona’s maiden name.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Fiona knew?”
“Fiona didn’t just know; she signed the wire receipt in the Cayman Islands during that ‘spa vacation’ you paid for last spring,” Darcy sneered. “They thought you were too passive, too eager to keep the peace, to ever audit the private portal. They were bleeding you dry, Sloan. The sixty dishes? The humiliation? It was a psychological squeeze. Julian wanted you to snap, pack a suitcase, and abandon the home so he could claim marital abandonment in court before you uncovered the fraud.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “He thought sixty dishes would break me.”
“Instead, it gave us the perfect stage,” Darcy said, checking her gold watch. It was 6:45 AM. “Now, about Fiona’s sixty-course feast. Did you hire the replacement caterers?”
“Better,” I said, a razor-thin smile touching my lips. “I called Antoine at Le Miroir. He owes my late father his entire culinary career. I authorized an emergency invoice from my private reserve: sixty professional, five-star heritage courses, delivered precisely at 11:30 AM in sixty polished, silver-domed banquet platters.”
Darcy tilted her head, amused. “You’re actually feeding them?”
“Oh, they’ll get their sixty dishes,” I said coldly. “Every single one of them. But Antoine’s staff has very specific instructions on how those platters are to be presented—and what will be resting under each silver lid alongside the garnish.”
Just then, my phone vibrated violently against the mahogany desk. It was 8:01 AM.
Julian’s name flashed on the screen.
I hit speakerphone.
“Where the hell are you?” Julian roared, his voice bouncing off Darcy’s glass walls. “It’s one minute past eight! My mother just woke up and the kitchen is bone dry! Did you run away, you pathetic coward?”
I looked at Darcy, who gave me a slow, encouraging nod.
“I’m running slightly behind, Julian,” I said, keeping my tone trembling, breathless, and apologetic. “The specialty butcher had a line around the block for the prime rib. Please, don’t lock me out. I’ve secured all sixty dishes. Everything is being handled. I swear on my life, the banquet will arrive before your mother sits down.”
“It better,” Julian snarled. “My mother’s friends from the country club arrive at eleven-thirty. If that dining room table isn’t groaning with food, I’ll throw your clothes into the hallway trash chute myself.”
May you like
The call ended with a violent click.
Darcy opened a sleek black leather briefcase and slid an embossed stack of fresh legal summons into the center. “The sheriff’s deputies are staged two blocks from your building. Let’s go give Fiona her birthday present.”
