Chapter 2 - The Audit of the LeechesThe music from the dining room abruptly cut off as we crossed the threshold into the sprawling, marble-tiled foyer. Margaret sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, her neck draped in heavy gold chains that clinked against one another as she laughed at something Michael whispered into her ear.
When she looked up and saw me standing at the entrance with Emily—whose damp clothes and exhausted posture stood in stark, jarring contrast to the black-tie elegance of the party—Margaret’s laughter died in her throat.
“Daniel, darling!” Margaret chirped, rising from her chair with practiced, theatrical grace, smoothing the front of her designer silk dress. “You’re back! Why didn’t anyone announce you? We would have had the chef prepare a proper greeting instead of—well, look at you both. Emily, dear, what on earth are you wearing? You look like you’ve been rolling in the scullery.”
Michael set his wine glass down with a sharp clink. His eyes darted from my face to the slim black folder in my hand, and his relaxed, drunken grin tightened into a cautious, defensive smirk. “Yeah, bro. You’re back early. Did the Chicago deal fall through? Is that why you look like you’re ready to murder someone?”
I didn't answer them immediately. I walked over to the grand double staircase, gently guided Emily to a plush velvet settee near the bottom landing, and told her to wait there.
Then I turned back toward the dining room.
Thirty-five years old. I had spent the last five years pushing myself past the threshold of physical exhaustion, surviving on four hours of sleep a night, trading my youth, my health, and my peace of mind for corporate expansions, property acquisitions, and profit margins, all so I could return to the woman who had shared instant noodles with me on a linoleum floor. And while I was bleeding myself dry in commercial kitchens and boardrooms across the country, my mother and siblings had turned my home into a country club funded by my sweat.
“Margaret,” I said, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Sit down.”
Margaret’s jaw tightened, her maternal performance slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the calculating, entitled matriarch underneath. “Daniel, do not use that tone with me. I am your mother. After everything I’ve done to keep this household running while you’re off playing corporate tycoon—managing the staff, overseeing the maintenance—this is how you greet me?”
“You managed nothing,” I said, stepping into the dining room. I picked up a silver serving fork from the table, tapped it lightly against the crystal centerpiece, and tossed it back down. “According to the bank records I pulled while waiting for my connecting flight at LAX, you haven’t paid a single household utility bill, property tax, or maintenance fee in four years. Every single expense—from the landscaping to your private country club dues—has been automatically debited from my primary commercial holding account.”
Michael stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the parquet floor. “So what if it was? You’re a multi-millionaire, Daniel! You have more money than God! What’s a few thousand dollars to support your own flesh and blood? Are you really going to begrudge your mother a comfortable lifestyle while you sit on a real estate empire?”
“A few thousand?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh that made Michael flinch. “Michael, let’s talk about your definition of a few thousand.”
I opened the black folder, flipped to page fourteen, and read aloud with clinical precision.
“In November of last year, you drew a forty-thousand-dollar cash advance from my corporate line of credit to purchase a custom sports car registered under your girlfriend’s name. In March, you billed my company eighty-five thousand dollars for ‘consulting fees’ related to a shell company you registered in Delaware—a company that has never conducted a single day of legitimate business in its existence. And last month, you used my corporate Amex to drop twenty-two thousand dollars on a VIP table service tab in Las Vegas while claiming you were attending a ‘real estate seminar.’”
Michael’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted toward Margaret for rescue, but my mother was staring at the table as if the polished wood had suddenly caught fire.
“And you, Ashley,” I continued, turning my gaze toward my sister, who had just crept back into the dining room from the service hallway, looking like a drowned rat. “You told Emily that you were helping her manage the household budget. But you were actually employing your personal friends as ‘administrative consultants,’ paying them six figures a year out of my estate accounts to do nothing more than plan weekend parties and order designer handbags on my dime.”
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“You can’t prove that!” Ashley shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. “You were too busy working! You abandoned us! You abandoned Emily! You were never here, Daniel! We were just keeping the lights on!”
“The lights are on,” I said softly, stepping right up to the edge of the dining table until I was towering over Margaret and Michael. “And the power is about to be cut off completely.”
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