Chapter 2 - The Lever
My father didn’t flinch when I said no. His expression didn’t even ripple. He simply reached into the breast pocket of his tailored charcoal blazer, pulled out a gold-plated pen, and set it squarely in the center of the white tablecloth, like an anchor securing a ship in a storm.
“You’ve always been stubborn, Maya,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, courtroom baritone he used whenever he was about to crush someone’s spirit. “You wore that stubbornness like a badge when you walked out of our house at twenty-two. You thought you were proving a point. But out here in the real world, stubbornness without capital is just arrogance.”
“I didn’t walk out,” I said, keeping my hands clasped tightly behind my back so he wouldn’t see the tremor in my fingers. “You threw my bags onto the driveway in the pouring rain because I refused to marry Jonathan Vance to cover your bad investments. You made your choice seven years ago. Don’t come into my establishment and rewrite history.”
My mother gasped softly, looking around the dining room to see if any of Savannah’s high-society diners were listening. “Maya, please, lower your voice. People are looking. Your father did what any responsible head of household would do.”
“Let them look,” Cassandra murmured, tapping her manicured French-tip nails against her wine glass. “Maybe they’ll see what kind of daughter runs this place. Selfish to the bone. Derek works eighty hours a week so this family can have a name in this town. You serve drinks to tourists.”
I ignored Cassandra completely. She had always been Dad’s decorative little champion, parroting his words since we were girls in private school.
“The sixty thousand isn’t a request,” my father continued calmly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the distance between us. “You think you’re untouchable because your name is on the brass plaque out front? Let’s talk about reality. You don’t own the Montgomery House, Maya. You hold a master lease on a historic commercial property. And who holds the deed to this entire square?”
A cold bead of sweat trickled down my spine, but I didn’t blink. “The Prescott Heritage Trust.”
“And who manages the Prescott Trust’s legal and commercial portfolio as of last Tuesday?” Dad smiled—a sharp, venomous grin that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Arthur Vance. Jonathan’s uncle. The very family you humiliated when you ran off. Arthur and I play golf every Saturday at the Landings.”
The dining room suddenly felt suffocatingly warm. The soft jazz floating from the lobby sounded distant, warped, like it was playing under deep water.
“You’re bluffing,” I said.
“I don’t bluff with my family’s future,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Arthur has been looking for a reason to void your commercial lease. He wants a luxury boutique retail chain in this block—someone with real corporate backing, not a young woman running on shoestring margins and boutique pride. One call from me tonight. One mention that the current leaseholder has unresolved family debt and irregular financial reporting… and your notice to cure will be pinned to those antique oak doors before breakfast tomorrow.”
May you like
He reached across the table, his fingers tapping the wood. “Give us the sixty thousand by Friday morning. Or I call your landlord tonight, and by next week, you won’t even have a lobby to stand in.”
***
