Chapter 1 - The Code in the Concrete
The smile on my face must have looked terrifying, because Dean actually took a step back, his hand instinctively dropping from the edge of the marble island.
"Natalie," he snapped, trying to regain his footing as the alpha in the room. "Who is at the door? If you think calling your sister or some dramatic girlfriend is going to stop this, you're delusional. The paperwork is drawn up. The company is saved. You’re done here."
"I didn't call my sister, Dean," I said, my voice dead calm as the doorbell rang a second time, louder and more insistent. "And I certainly didn't call a girlfriend. Why don't you open it? After all, you think you own the place."
Marjorie sniffed, tossing a bundle of my winter coats onto the floor. "Just open it, Dean. Get rid of whoever it is so we can finish clearing out her junk before Oliver wakes up."
Dean glared at me, adjusted the collar of his crisp white shirt, and marched down the hallway. Vanessa followed a few steps behind him, still wrapped in my blue silk robe, her smirk returning as she leaned against the foyer wall to watch the show.
I didn't follow them. I didn't need to. I knew exactly who was on the porch.
"Can I help you?" I heard Dean’s voice echo from the front door, laced with his signature country-club arrogance.
"Dean Prescott?" a deep, gravelly voice responded. "I’m Officer Vance, Charlotte PD. This is Agent Miller from the State Bureau of Investigation. We have a warrant to enter and secure these premises."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the hallway.
"A warrant?" Dean scoffed, though his voice pitched a fraction higher. "For what? This is a private residence. There's been a mistake."
"No mistake, sir," the officer replied. "We're here to escort Ms. Natalie Prescott while she executes a lawful property seizure, and to serve a temporary restraining and freeze order regarding the assets of Prescott North Creative."
Vanessa stepped backward into the kitchen, her eyes wide, the color rapidly draining from her flawlessly contoured face. Marjorie and Walter froze, a half-packed box of my family heirlooms suspended between them like a guilty secret.
Dean walked back into the kitchen, flanked by two uniformed officers and a woman in a sharp navy suit holding a digital tablet. His face was a mixture of bright red fury and underlying panic.
"What the hell is this, Natalie?!" Dean roared, pointing a shaking finger at me. "You called the police? On what grounds? I bought this house! My name is on the deed!"
"Is it?" I asked, tilting my head. I reached over, took a slow sip of my own coffee right out of Vanessa’s abandoned mug, and looked at Agent Miller. "Agent Miller, would you mind explaining the tiny detail my husband—well, my soon-to-be-ex-husband—forgot to check?"
Agent Miller tapped her tablet. "Mr. Prescott, while you did indeed sign the purchase deed for 1422 Ridgewood Lane four years ago, you did so using funds drawn from the Prescott North Creative primary operating account as a 'corporate housing loan' to avoid personal tax liability. Do you remember that?"
Dean’s jaw tightened. "Yeah. It's standard corporate accounting. My accountant cleared it."
"Your accountant cleared a standard loan," I interjected, stepping forward. "But what you forgot, Dean, is that last night at 11:47 PM, when you begged me to authorize the emergency $2.4 million transfer to save your collapsing firm, you didn't give me the login to the standard payroll account. You gave me supreme administrative access to the entire corporate infrastructure to bypass the midnight clearing deadline."
Dean looked confused, his eyes darting to Vanessa, who was completely useless to him now. "So what? You moved the money. The company is alive."
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"I moved the money," I whispered, leaning over the kitchen island until I was inches from his face. "But as a contracts and acquisitions manager, I don't just push buttons, Dean. I read the clauses. When I authorized that transfer, I triggered a default clause in your company’s bylaws—a clause I wrote when we founded the firm. By injecting $2.4 million of my own personal, inherited capital to bail out your fraudulent negligence, your 'corporate housing loan' was automatically called in. The house doesn't belong to you. It doesn't even belong to the bank."
I tapped the kitchen island. "As of twelve minutes ago, this house is officially registered as a personal asset of Natalie Prescott. You are a tenant, Dean. And you’re currently trespassing."
