Chapter 12: Packing The Bags
The suitcases sat zipped and heavy near the entryway, two dark canvas bags that looked entirely out of place against the polished marble floor of the foyer. The house was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen down the hall. I stood by the front door, wearing my old trench coat and flat leather boots, feeling like a stranger waiting for a train that was never going to arrive. Julian was upstairs doing a final sweep of the study, making sure no personal papers or financial records were left behind for Vivienne's legal team to scavenge.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the foyer.
My heart seized in my chest. I froze, my hand hovering over the brass door handle. For a second, I thought it might be Vivienne returning to gloat, or perhaps a process server with emergency injunctions from the board. I took a slow, deep breath, tried to steady my breathing, and pulled the heavy oak door open.
It wasn't Vivienne. Standing on the stone porch was a courier in a gray uniform holding a thick manila envelope and a digital signature pad.
"Delivery for Julian Vance," the courier said in a flat, indifferent tone.
Before I could speak, Julian's footsteps sounded on the stairs. He came around the corner, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking exhausted and tense. He took in the courier, the uniform, and the manila envelope with a dark, suspicious glare.
"I'm Julian Vance," he said, stepping past me into the doorway.
The courier extended the digital pad. "Sign here, please. Personal correspondence from Vance Foundation legal counsel."
Julian grabbed the stylus, signed his name with a sharp, aggressive slash across the screen, and snatched the envelope from the courier's hand without a word of thanks. The courier turned on his heel and walked back down the stone steps toward a gray delivery van idling at the curb.
Julian closed the door slowly, his eyes fixed on the bold black lettering printed across the front of the envelope. He walked over to the console table, ripped the paper flap open with his thumb, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cream-colored cardstock. I watched him closely, reading the micro-expressions on his face as his eyes scanned the printed lines—the slight twitch of his jaw, the tightening around his mouth, the way his breath hitched for a fraction of a second.
"What is it, Julian?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
May you like
Julian lowered the paper onto the marble table, his hands flat against the surface. A strange, hollow laugh escaped his lips—not angry this time, but the sound of a man who had finally hit the bottom of an infinite drop.
"It's not from the legal counsel," Julian said, staring blankly at the wall. "It's a foreclosure notice from the private mortgage lender. The loan was defaulted the moment the foundation voting shares were transferred yesterday evening. We have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises before the marshals come to change the locks."
