Chapter 4 - The Homecoming Trap
At seven o'clock on Saturday morning, sixteen hours after I arrived at the Elm Street studio, my phone vibrated on the coffee table. The screen illuminated with Corbin’s name. I let it ring five times, allowing the digital chime to fill the high-ceilinged room before I answered.
"Marlo?" His voice held a forced, frantic edge, masked by performative panic. "Where are you? I went to the hospital to pick you up at five yesterday afternoon, and they said you had already been discharged! I came home, and the house is pitch black. Your phone went straight to voicemail!"
"My battery died," I said smoothly, my tone measured, flat, and weak enough to sound like a fragile invalid. "The discharge transport dropped me off where I asked them to."
"Where are you? I’ve been driving around for two hours!"
"I'm at my father's old drafting studio on Elm Street," I said. "I needed quiet, Corbin. The house suburban neighborhood is too loud, and I didn't want to navigate the stairs to our upstairs bedroom."
There was a micro-pause on the line—a tiny, telltale hesitation as his mind recalibrated his immediate strategy. "Elm Street? Marlo, babe, that place hasn't been cleaned in months. It's dusty! You just had open-heart surgery. You need proper care. Mom and Sable are at our house right now—we set up the guest room downstairs for you. Mom even brought over some organic soups. I’m coming to get you."
"No," I said, letting a faint raspy strain creep into my throat. "Don't drive over. I don't have the energy to move my bags right now. If you want to see me, come alone."
"Of course, sweetheart. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When the call disconnected, Vance stepped out from the adjacent kitchenette, holding a mug of dark coffee. "He’s bringing a script, Marlo. Be prepared."
"I know," I said, adjusting the white chest binder beneath my thick wool sweater. "He needs to assess how damaged I am."
Twenty-two minutes later, the front doorbell chimed. Vance opened the heavy oak door, stepping back into the shadow of the entryway without making a sound.
Corbin rushed in, wearing his signature designer jacket—a leather jacket I had bought him for his thirty-second birthday—and carrying a bouquet of yellow roses from a gas station grocery counter. His face was a masterpiece of manufactured marital concern.
"Marlo!" He hurried toward my armchair, setting the flowers on the table and dropping to one knee beside me. He reached out to take my hands, but I kept them resting lightly over my chest pillow, shielding my sternum. "My God, look at you. You’re so pale."
"Surgery will do that," I said, my eyes fixed on his face. "How was your business negotiation yesterday?"
Corbin winced slightly, a flickering ghost of guilt crossing his features before his practiced composure returned. "It was... unavoidable, babe. You know how delicate the corporate accounts are right now. I had to meet with prospective investors for Voss Global. I tried to make it back to the hospital, but traffic on the interstate was a nightmare."
"I see," I murmured. "It’s a shame. Nurse Rosalind was hoping to go over my medication schedule with you."
"I have the schedule," Corbin insisted quickly, reaching into his coat to pull out a small leather notebook. "I spoke to the administrative clerk before I left the hospital. Marlo, listen to me... you don't need to worry about anything. Work, finances, the Mercer Estate project—I have everything completely under control."
"Do you?" I asked softly.
"Yes," he said, leaning closer, his tone turning intimate, almost hypnotic. "In fact, to make sure you didn't have to stress over project cash flows, I initiated a routine capital relocation earlier this week. Just moving some idle reserves into a yield account to keep our liquidity protected while you’re out of commission."
He was telling me about the $450,000—disguising grand larceny as prudent financial management.
"That was very thoughtful of you, Corbin," I said, keeping my gaze locked on his eyes. "And what about Oakridge House? Did you manage to check the roof tiles after last week's storm?"
Corbin’s eyelids fluttered—a minor, distinct nervous tick he had shown since the day I met him whenever he was hiding a major misstep. "The roof? Oh, yeah. I had a contractor take a look. Everything is fine. But Marlo... we really should consider restructuring the title on Oakridge. With your medical situation, having the property tied up in a single-named trust makes emergency asset management very complicated for me."
"Does it?" I asked gently.
"Yes," he urged, pressing his advantage, clearly convinced I was too exhausted to challenge him. "I actually spoke to Mom's lawyer, just for advice. He mentioned that if we execute a temporary marital land power assignment, I could manage the maintenance costs directly out of the Voss Global account without bothering you for signatures while you recover."
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of white paper, along with a sleek black pen.
"I brought the paperwork," Corbin said, his breath hitching slightly with suppressed excitement. "It just needs your signature here at the bottom. Once this is filed, you can completely turn off your brain for six months and just heal."
I looked at the white document resting on my lap. The bold heading read: SPECIAL POWER OF ATTORNEY FOR REAL PROPERTY AND ASSET LIQUIDATION.
He was standing over me in my father’s studio, three days after my sternum was split open, holding a pen out to me like a snake offering an apple.
"Leave it on the table, Corbin," I said quietly.
His expression tightened. "Marlo, it's better if we just sign it now so I can run it down to the notary before noon."
"I said," I repeated, my voice dropping into a low, firm register that made him pause mid-gesture, "leave it on the table. My hand is too shaky to write today. I'll read it tonight, and we can discuss it tomorrow when your mother and Sable come over."
May you like
Corbin blinked, caught off guard by the mention of his family. "Mom and Sable? Why would they need to be here?"
"Because," I said, offering him a faint, cold smile, "if we're going to talk about family business, I think it's only right that the whole family is in the room."
