Chapter 2 - The Morning After
The light that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of my eighty-fourth-floor penthouse at seven the next morning was blindingly bright. Below, the Chicago River carved through the city like a ribbon of dark green silk, reflecting the steel and glass towers of the Loop.
I stood by the kitchen island, clutching a mug of black coffee, watching the city wake up.
My phone hadn't stopped buzzing since 06:00 AM.
Forty-seven missed calls from my father. Twenty-two text messages from my mother ranging from frantic pleas ("Natalie please think of your mother's heart") to furious accusations ("How can you be so cold and heartless after everything we gave you?"). Logan hadn't texted me directly, but three mutual acquaintances from the Chicago hospitality scene had already reached out asking if it was true that Logan’s restaurant group, LVM Hospitality, was collapsing.
A quiet knock at the heavy oak front door interrupted the notifications.
I stepped over and looked through the security camera monitor. It was Claire, wearing a sharp charcoal suit and holding two large paper bags from a French bakery down the street.
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"You look like you haven't slept a wink," Claire said, stepping inside and handing me a fresh pastry.
"I slept three hours," I admitted, closing the door behind her. "I kept waking up thinking I was still in that dining room, waiting for my dad to tell me it was all a misunderstanding."
"It wasn't a misunderstanding, Natalie," Claire said gently, setting her briefcase on the marble island. "It was a crime. And if I hadn't flagged the signature match anomaly in Lakeview's system two days ago, you would currently be on the hook for a $1.4 million personal guarantee on a business that has a ninety percent burn rate."
I nodded, taking a slow sip of coffee. "What's the status on the US Attorney referral?"
"The bank filed the formal suspicious activity report at five p.m. yesterday," Claire reported, her expression turning professional. "Because the dollar amount exceeds one million and involves interstate banking networks, federal agents are already reviewing the loan application file. Your father and brother are in deep trouble, Nat. Real trouble."
Before I could reply, my private phone line rang. The caller ID displayed an internal line from Northstar Holdings' legal counsel, Marcus Vance.
I pressed speaker. "Go ahead, Marcus."
"Good morning, Natalie," Marcus's deep, measured voice sounded over the speaker. "I'm currently standing in the lobby of the Brooks Development building on Wacker Drive. The locksmiths have just finished rekeying the executive floors, and our private security team is stationed at the elevators."
"Is my father there?" I asked, my heart taking a small, involuntary jump.
"He arrived at 06:30 AM," Marcus said. "He tried to use his master key card, which was revoked at midnight. He is currently in the lobby causing a considerable disturbance. He’s demanding to see the board, screaming that he's been robbed by his daughter, and refusing to leave the premises. Security is holding him in the vestibule, but the building manager is asking if we want to call the Chicago Police Department to have him removed for criminal trespassing."
I closed my eyes for a long moment.
If I had police arrest Richard Brooks in the lobby of the building he had built thirty years ago, it would hit the front page of the Tribune by noon. The scandal would devastate whatever remaining credit value Brooks Development had left. But more than that... a tiny, stubborn piece of me hesitated at the thought of seeing my father led away in handcuffs in front of his former employees.
"Natalie," Claire warned softly, reading my face. "Do not soft-touch this. He didn't hesitate when he forged your name."
"I know," I said. I opened my eyes and looked out at the river. "Marcus, tell security to bring him up to the top floor conference room. Alone. No lawyers, no Logan. Tell him I will meet him there in twenty minutes."
"Understood, Natalie," Marcus said. "We'll have the room secured."
I hung up, swallowed the rest of my coffee, and set the mug in the sink.
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"You're going down there?" Claire asked.
"I spent twenty-four years letting Richard Brooks dictate the terms of my life," I said, picking up my coat and grabbing my leather briefcase from the table. "He wants an explanation? I'm going to give him one—from behind the executive desk."
