Chapter 4 - THE INHERITANCE OF DEBT
With Julian gone and the guests scattered into the night, the vastness of the ballroom felt hollow and cold.
My father sank heavily into one of the velvet-upholstered chairs near the abandoned head table, his hands trembling as he loosened his silk bow tie.
“The company accounts are linked to my personal holdings,” he muttered, staring blankly at the floral centerpieces. “Julian convinced me to act as a guarantor for the bridge loans last month. He said it was just a formality for tax purposes.”
I stood near the door, my arms crossed, watching the man who had spent my entire life treating my choices as personal insults.
“You signed as primary guarantor without reading the corporate audit disclosures,” I stated.
“He was going to be my son-in-law!” my father snapped, a pathetic flash of his former arrogance returning before instantly collapsing under the weight of reality. “The bank called my accountant twenty minutes ago. Our home, the trust funds, the investment portfolios—everything is cross-collateralized.”
Khloe dropped into a chair across from him, staring at her phone screen, which was now flooded with angry notifications from creditors, wedding planners, and tabloid blogs picking up the live-streamed chaos of the federal raid.
“Dad,” Khloe whispered, her voice hollow. “My card was declined at the boutique this morning. I thought it was just a glitch.”
“It wasn't a glitch,” I said, walking slowly across the marble floor. My boots left faint, dry red smudges on the white stone. “Julian’s cash flow stopped three weeks ago when the Department of Defense flagged his import manifests. He was using your family name to float his debts until he could liquidate the remaining inventory and run for the border.”
My father looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and old.
“Why didn't you tell us?” he asked. “If you knew months ago—”
“I tried,” I interrupted quietly. “Six months ago, when I first noticed the supply discrepancies in the logistics logs, I flagged it through the proper channels and sent a summary memo to your corporate office.”
He blinked, struggling through the haze of his panic. “I never saw a memo.”
“No,” I said. “Because you had my email address blocked the day I signed my enlistment contract.”
Silence settled back over the room, heavier this time, unbroken by music or laughter or the hum of conversation.
Khloe buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with dry, angry sobs.
May you like
“What are we going to do?” she muttered into her palms. “We have no money. The wedding is national news. Everyone is laughing at us.”
“You’re going to pack your bags,” I said, turning toward the exit. “And tomorrow morning, you’re going to learn what it actually means to earn a living without a trust fund.”
