Chapter 8 - The Financial Chokehold
The red alert on my phone screen confirmed that I was completely cut off from my own money.
Grant had frozen over twenty million dollars in liquid assets, leaving me entirely penniless in the middle of the night.
“He is trying to starve us out before the real estate deal can close,” Rachel said, staring at the financial notification.
We arrived safely back at Nora’s house, and I immediately scooped a crying Ava into my protective arms.
It was 4:00 AM on Friday, and the all-cash buyer, Marcus Sterling, needed to close the deal by noon.
Rachel received a devastating email from Marcus’s legal team just as the sun began to rise.
“Marcus found out about the forged deed Grant filed with the county clerk,” Rachel announced grimly.
“His lawyers are officially pulling the cash offer because the title is far too messy and risky.”
If Marcus walked away, Grant would win the war of attrition, and I would eventually lose custody of my daughter to a rigged system.
I handed Ava to Nora and opened my laptop, my fingers flying rapidly across the keyboard.
I bypassed Marcus’s massive legal team entirely and found the direct, private email address for the billionaire developer.
“Marcus, I know you want this land to build your flagship luxury resort,” I typed furiously.
“I am sitting here with the original, verified physical deed and proof of blatant forgery by my husband.”
I took a massive, terrifying gamble to force his hand before time completely ran out.
“If you wire the money by 11:00 AM today, I will drop the sale price by five million dollars.”
I hit send and waited in agonizing, suffocating silence as the clock ticked closer to the deadline.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang with a FaceTime request from an unknown private number.
I answered it, and the stern, imposing face of Marcus Sterling filled the screen.
“I like people who understand the value of ruthless efficiency, Lena,” Marcus said without any preamble.
“Bring the original deed to my downtown boardroom at 10:00 AM, and the money is yours.”
We cheered quietly, packing Ava into her car seat and preparing for the final, decisive battle.
But as we pulled into the underground parking garage of the Sterling building, Rachel’s phone rang frantically.
“Grant’s flight from Miami landed three hours early, and Brooke told him everything,” a paralegal warned Rachel.
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Before we could even unbuckle our seatbelts, a black luxury car smashed aggressively into the front bumper of our SUV.
Grant stepped out of the vehicle, his face twisted in absolute, uncontrollable rage.
