Chapter 3 - The Trap in the Contract
Tanya’s public relations firm, Briggs Communications, relied heavily on three major municipal accounts: the City of Raleigh Transit Authority, the Wake County Tourism Board, and the North Carolina Arts Council. Together, those three contracts accounted for seventy percent of her annual revenue.
To secure those accounts, Tanya had filed for state certification as a Historically Underutilized Business (HUB), claiming sole ownership and zero financial backing from non-certified partners.
On Thursday morning, I met with Tanya at her studio.
The space was sleek, filled with velvet sofas, neon signs that read CREATE THE FUTURE, and golden racks of press samples. Tanya sat behind her glass desk, looking stressed, surrounded by floor plans for her upcoming summer gala.
“Renee!” she gasped, looking up from her laptop. “Thank God you’re here. I am losing my mind. The caterer for the Arts Council gala just canceled on me.”
“That’s why I came by,” I said softly, setting a bag of fresh pastries on her desk. “I heard through the vendor network that Chef Laurent pulled out. I came to offer help.”
Tanya looked at me like I was an angel descending from heaven. “Are you serious? Renee, the gala is in ten days! If I don't have catering locked down, the Tourism Board is going to drop my contract.”
“I can handle the catering for you, Tan,” I said, sitting down and pulling a folder from my tote bag. “I spoke with Palate Catering this morning. They have an open slot. I can oversee the entire execution under Caldwell Events as a subcontractor.”
Tanya practically jumped across the desk to hug me. “You are an absolute lifesaver! I don't know what I’d do without you!”
“That’s what best friends are for,” I murmured into her shoulder, smelling her expensive rose perfume.
I pulled out the subcontract agreement I had prepared that morning.
“Just sign here,” I said, pointing to the bottom of the second page. “It’s standard procedure. It specifies that Caldwell Events handles food, beverage, and staffing, while Briggs Communications retains primary administrative responsibility for vendor payments.”
Tanya didn't read the contract. Why would she? I was her best friend, the woman who had spent twelve years saving her from her own mistakes. She grabbed a gold pen, signed her name with a flourish, and handed the document back to me.
She didn't see Section 8.4.
Section 8.4 was an indemnification clause paired with an explicit financial disclosure warranty. It stated that by signing the contract, Briggs Communications verified that all funds used to pay subcontracted vendors originated strictly from certified business revenue, and that any third-party capital injections were fully disclosed to the state ethics portal.
If Tanya paid my catering invoice using funds from Summit Wealth Management LLC—the shell company Damon used to pay her rent—she would be committing felony vendor fraud under state contracting law.
And I had already arranged for Damon to pay that invoice.
Two days later, on Saturday afternoon, I was at home with Damon. He was sitting on the couch, watching a football game, while I was sitting at the dining table working on my laptop.
“Damon,” I called out casually. “Tanya’s gala is coming up next week, and she’s in a serious cash flow bind. The state hasn't released her grant funds yet.”
Damon didn't look away from the TV. “Yeah? That’s rough. She’s been stressing about that.”
“I offered to subcontract the catering through Caldwell Events,” I continued, my voice light and conversational. “The invoice is twelve thousand dollars. I told her she could pay me after the state grant clears in November, but Palate Catering needs a three-thousand-dollar deposit today to hold the date.”
Damon turned his head, a slight frown touching his brow. “A deposit? Can’t you just waive it for her?”
“I can’t, babe,” I sighed, looking frustrated. “Palate isn't my company; they’re an outside vendor. If I don't pay the deposit by five o'clock, they’ll drop the booking, and Tanya’s contract with the Tourism Board will be terminated.”
Damon shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He couldn't let Tanya’s contract fail. Her public success was his pride; he viewed her agency as his personal secondary project.
“Look,” Damon said, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. “What if I cover the deposit for her? Just as a short-term personal loan?”
“Oh, Damon, that’s so sweet of you,” I beamed, looking up at him with wide, admiring eyes. “But don't use our joint account. We need that money reserved for the house deposit next month.”
“No, no, of course not,” Damon said quickly. “I’ll transfer it from my private consulting account. I’ll just wire it directly to Caldwell Events’ vendor portal under Tanya’s reference number.”
“You’re an amazing man, Damon,” I said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Tanya is so lucky to have a friend like you in her corner.”
“We’re a team,” Damon said, smiling, completely satisfied with his own gallantry.
Ten minutes later, my phone chimed with a notification from Caldwell Events’ merchant gateway:
Wire transfer received: $3,000.00. Originating Account: Summit Wealth Management LLC. Reference Note: Briggs Communications - Catering Deposit.
I opened the transaction detail, saved the digital receipt as a high-resolution PDF, and dropped it into Folder B: State Ethics Board / Briggs.
The trap was set, signed, and funded.
That evening, I invited my aunt Vera over for dinner.
Aunt Vera was sixty-eight years old, a retired family court judge with sharp gray eyes, iron-gray hair, and zero tolerance for foolishness. She was the only person in my family whose opinion I truly respected. She had been married for forty years to my uncle before he passed away, and she understood human nature with the cold precision of someone who had spent four decades watching people lie under oath.
While Damon was downstairs in his workshop fixing a broken cabinet door, Aunt Vera sat with me on the back patio, sipping gin and tonic.
She looked at me over the rim of her glass, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Renee,” she said flatly.
“Yes, Aunt Vera?”
“You’re smiling too much.”
I paused, setting my glass down on the iron table. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been smiling like a woman playing chess since I walked through the front door,” Vera said, leaning forward. “I’ve known you since you were born. When you’re truly happy, you’re noisy. You talk fast, you move around the room, you fuss with things. Right now, you’re sitting there like a marble statue. What’s going on with Damon?”
I looked toward the house. Through the kitchen window, I could see Damon’s silhouette moving around the island, holding a beer bottle, humming to himself.
I turned back to Aunt Vera, reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and handed it to her.
On the screen was the video I had recorded in the bathroom stall at Magnolia Hall, followed by the screenshots of the fourteen calendar entries.
Aunt Vera put on her reading glasses. She watched the video once. She didn't gasp. She didn't scream. She simply leaned back, her face turning into a mask of pure, judicial ice.
She looked through the screenshots, scrolling slowly, checking the dates, the times, the locations.
When she finished, she set the phone down on the table, took her glasses off, and wiped them with a napkin.
“How long have you known?” Vera asked softly.
“Six days,” I replied.
Vera looked at me, her sharp eyes scanning my face for any sign of hysteria, any trace of weakness. She found none.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to destroy them, Aunt Vera,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I’m going to take his career, her business, their reputations, and every dollar they tried to steal from my future.”
Aunt Vera was silent for three long seconds. A slow, terrifying smile began to open across her face—a smile that ran in our bloodline, the smile of women who built empires and guarded them with swords.
She reached across the table, took my hand, and squeezed it tightly.
“Do you need money?” Vera asked quietly. “Or lawyers?”
“Neither,” I said softly. “I just need you to be sitting in the front row at the Museum of Art on October twenty-fourth.”
May you like
Aunt Vera lifted her glass of gin and clicked it against mine.
“I’ll bring my best diamonds, darling,” she said.
