Chapter 13 - The Auction of Evelyn’s Pride
Six weeks after the board hearing, the public liquidation of Evelyn Porter’s secondary real estate portfolio commenced at the Denver City Center atrium.
The courtroom was packed with socialites, former friends, and developers who had smelled blood in the water. Evelyn sat in the third row, her back stiff as an iron rod, wearing a black mourning veil that did nothing to hide the hollows beneath her eyes. Her family trust was broken; Arthur Vance’s legal team had pierced the corporate veil, tying her personal holdings directly to Marcus’s offshore money laundering.
"Lot 14," the auctioneer chanted into his microphone. "The historic residential brownstone at 1422 Pearl Street. Starting bid: one point two million."
Harold Kline sat beside Evelyn, his head in his hands. Every time the gavel fell, another piece of the Porter family dynasty was carved up to pay the twelve-million-dollar restitution fund established for the firm's defrauded investors.
"One point five," a developer in a tailored navy suit bid from the front row.
"One point six," Clara Sterling called out from the back.
Evelyn whipped her head around, her veil parting. When she saw Clara sitting next to me, her breath hissed between her teeth like steam escaping a cracked radiator.
"One point eight," the developer countered.
"Two million flat," Clara said, her voice cool and bored.
"Two million once... twice... sold to the Taylor-Vance Trust." The auctioneer’s gavel hit the wooden sound block with a sharp crack that made Evelyn flinch.
I didn't gloat. I didn't smile. I stood up, smoothed down the lapels of my cream blazer, and walked down the center aisle toward the exit.
Evelyn caught my sleeve as I passed. Her fingers were bony, claw-like, stripped of the diamonds she had flaunted for four decades.
"That was my mother’s home," Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of hatred and pathetic desperation. "You stole my son. You took our company. Now you take our family home?"
I pulled my arm free from her grasp, not with violence, but with the calm authority of someone swatting away a cobweb.
"Your mother’s home is going to become temporary transitional housing for women escaping domestic abuse and financial abandonment, Evelyn," I said. "It will finally serve a purpose that honors the women inside it."
"You are a monster, Nina Taylor," she choked out.
"No, Evelyn," I murmured, leaning down so only she could hear. "I'm just a daughter who remembers February eighteenth. Tell Marcus I said hello during your next prison visiting hour."
May you like
I walked out into the sunlit street where Jonah’s truck was idling by the curb.
***
