Chapter 6 - The Trap Sprung
By Thursday morning, the bandages were removed from my eyes. My vision was blurry and sensitive to light, requiring dark tinted glasses, but the doctor confirmed my corneas were regenerating remarkably well. I could see the faces of my parents clearly again.
Meanwhile, the Cross family was blissfully ignorant of the avalanche rushing toward them.
Daniel had called my old phone number twice over the past forty-eight hours, leaving brief, annoyed voicemail messages:
"Maya, this is ridiculous. My mother says your suitcase is still in the hallway. You need to come back here, apologize to her, and clean up your things. The Hartwell meeting is tomorrow afternoon, and I don't need the stress of your childish silent treatment. Call me back immediately."
I didn't reply.
At 9:00 AM on Friday morning, a uniformed process server walked up the stone steps of the Cross estate in Franklin.
Vivian Cross opened the door herself, expecting a delivery of fresh lilies for her upcoming weekend garden party. Instead, she was handed a thick legal packet bound in bright red tape.
"What is this?" Vivian demanded, looking at the man with disdain.
"Notice of Intent to Foreclose, Mrs. Cross," the process server said officially. "Hartwell Holdings LLC has initiated acceleration proceedings on the mortgage for this property due to ninety days of non-payment. You have until 5:00 PM today to cure the default, or physical eviction proceedings will commence on Monday."
Vivian’s face drained of color. She snatched the papers and slammed the door, rushing into her husband’s study.
Arthur Cross, a gray-haired man with deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes, was sitting behind his mahogany desk, frantically reviewing financial balance sheets.
"Arthur!" Vivian shrieked, throwing the packet onto his desk. "What is the meaning of this? Hartwell is foreclosing on our home!"
Arthur looked at the paper, his hands trembling. "It’s... it’s just an automated administrative error, Vivian. Daniel is meeting with the Hartwell executive board today at 4:30 PM to finalize the forty-million-dollar liquidity injection. We’ll use twelve million from that tranche to clear this mortgage immediately."
"Are you sure?" Vivian gasped, clutching her pearls. "Where is Daniel?"
"He's at the tailor getting a new suit for the meeting," Arthur said, trying to reassure himself. "Everything depends on this 4:30 PM meeting. Once Hartwell signs the release, we are safe."
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What Arthur and Vivian didn't know was that the meeting at 4:30 PM was not held at Hartwell’s commercial offices. It was scheduled in the private, secure board room on the top floor of the Hartwell Tower—a room equipped with state-of-the-art projection screens, surround-sound audio systems, and double-paned soundproof glass.
And standing in the center of that boardroom, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and dark designer sunglasses, was the woman they thought was crying in a dark apartment.
