Chapter 4 - The Living Room Trial
I reached for the bedroom doorknob, but Jason stepped into my path, his tall frame blocking the exit. His jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists inside the pockets of his fleece vest.
"Becca, be reasonable," Jason said, his voice dropping into a low, threatening register. "If you walk out there and tell Greg Vance this place belongs to you, you aren't just humiliating Olivia. You’re taking food out of your niece’s mouth. I won't let you do that."
I looked up at him. For years, Jason had played the affable, wealthy brother-in-law at Thanksgiving dinners, making subtle jokes about my single status and my modest Honda Civic. Now, backed into a corner, he looked like a cornered animal.
"Take your hand off that door," I said, my tone deadly quiet, "or the first phone call I make won't be to the sheriff. It’ll be to the Colorado State Banking Commission to report corporate fraud."
Jason froze. His eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his cheeks. He knew that lying about assets to secure private venture capital was a federal crime. He slowly stepped back, raising both hands in surrender.
"Jason, move!" Olivia demanded, shoving past him. She grabbed my arm before I could turn the handle. "Becca, please. What do you want? Money? Once the round closes, we’ll pay you rent for the weekend. Ten thousand dollars. Cash. Just let us have this one night."
"You don't have ten thousand dollars, Olivia. You don't even have enough to pay your mortgage next month," I yanked the door open and walked out into the corridor.
The living room had not resumed its festive mood. The jazz music had stopped completely. Michael and Aunt Carol were standing near the front door, looking deeply uncomfortable, while Greg Vance—a silver-haired man in a tailored wool sweater—stood near the grand fireplace, examining the county deed I had left on the coffee table.
As I walked into the room, Greg looked up. His expression was impossible to read, his gray eyes sharp and analytical.
"Is this yours?" Greg asked, pointing a manicured finger at the document.
"It is," I said clearly, addressing the entire room. "I bought this property three weeks ago. My sister, Olivia, and her husband, Jason, do not own this lodge. They have no legal claim to it, and they did not have permission to host a gathering here tonight."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Aunt Carol put her hand over her mouth. One of Olivia’s friends hastily grabbed her designer purse off the couch, her face flushed with secondhand embarrassment.
Olivia rushed into the room, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured face. "Greg, it’s a misunderstanding! It’s an intra-family dispute over an inheritance! My father set up a trust—"
"Our father was an enlisted Master Sergeant who died six years ago with twenty thousand dollars in debt, Olivia," I cut her off mercilessly. "Stop lying. There is no trust. There is no family estate. You used my mother to steal my lockbox code."
Greg Vance took off his reading glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He didn't look angry; he looked disgusted, the seasoned cynicism of a venture capitalist who had seen every flavor of human greed.
"Jason," Greg said calmly, looking past Olivia to where her husband stood frozen in the hallway archway. "Our meeting on Monday is canceled. Summit Capital will not be participating in your Series B."
"Greg, wait! Please, let me explain—" Jason stumbled forward, his hands trembling.
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"You have two hours to pack your things and clear out," I announced, raising my voice over Jason’s desperate babbling. "If every car in that driveway isn't gone by eight o'clock, I am pressing criminal trespass charges against every single person who remains."
***
