CHAPTER 4: THE VIEW FROM THE TOP
The moment the ink was dry on the folder, Mark and Rachel practically ran out of the intensive care unit. They didn't even bother to glance back at the mother they believed was drawing her final breaths.
Through the secure line, Arthur kept me updated on their movements. "They swallowed the bait whole, Helen. Mark just left the financial district. He attempted to authorize a twenty-million-dollar cash withdrawal from your corporate liquidity reserves. Rachel has already contacted a luxury marine broker to place a half-million-dollar non-refundable deposit on a custom motor yacht."
I lay against the pillows, the physical pain in my chest secondary to the sharp thrill of a seasoned predator watching its prey step into the snare. "And how did the bank respond?"
"They accepted the folder with the flag signature. Following standard high-net-worth protection protocols, they informed Mark that due to the size of the transaction, the funds would clear by tomorrow morning—day three. He suspects nothing. He truly believes the accounts are unlocked."
But their arrogance wasn't satisfied with empty numbers. That afternoon, they decided to inspect their "inheritance" firsthand. They drove to my personal residence—the multi-million-dollar penthouse atop the Wilshire Corridor where I had lived since my husband’s passing.
Through the remote security feed routed directly to the screen of my hidden burner phone, I watched the horror play out in high-definition. Rachel was pacing through my living room, tapping her long acrylic nails against my collection of mid-century oil paintings.
"This stays, that goes, the rest belongs in an auction house," she directed the two private interior designers she had already hired and brought into my home. "This entire traditional aesthetic is suffocating. I want the whole floor stripped down to minimalist marble. And the old woman's master suite... tear out the walls. I want it converted into a climate-controlled wardrobe for my shoes."
Mark was sitting in my favorite leather armchair—the one my late husband had gifted me when we cleared our first million-dollar development deal. He had a glass of my finest vintage scotch in his hand, his feet propped up on the mahogany table. He laughed, a loose, arrogant sound. "I told you, babe. The old lady was tough, but everybody breaks eventually. If it wasn't for that truck running the red light, we’d still be playing the dutiful children for another five years."
"You should send that truck driver a thank-you note," Rachel giggled, tossing her hair back as she curled into his lap. "By tomorrow noon, we own this city."
I looked at the tiny screen of the burner phone. The words of my only son tore through whatever remained of my maternal sentiment. But no tears fell. My tear ducts had dried out long ago. I had spent my entire life protecting him from the harsh realities of the world, and if he wished to use that protection to celebrate my demise, I would be the one to show him what absolute ruin looked like.
"Arthur," I called the line. "Execute phase two. Issue the immediate recall notices on every single personal line of credit Mark holds that is guaranteed by my estate. And file the immediate revocation of the corporate lease on their residence."
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"The Bel-Air property?" Arthur asked, a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice. "That house is held under the core company's real estate portfolio. If we revoke the lease for non-compliance with corporate bylaws, they can be legally locked out by tomorrow morning."
"Do it," I said, my voice matching the absolute frost of the air conditioning. "I want them on the street before the sun sets on my third day."
