Chapter 2 - THE SUMMONING
For three days, the world exists as a low-grade digital assault.
My wedding guests, divided into those who know me and those who only know my family’s reputation, split along predictable fault lines. Lochlan’s family—sensible, salt-of-the-earth engineers, teachers, and naval officers from Michigan—send flowers, soup, and ferocious text messages demanding to know which precinct is handling the assault report. My college friends text me with furious disbelief: *El, Calliope’s story is trending on TikTok. What the hell happened? Call us.*
My father sends a single email from his corporate account:
*Eloen: Your mother is deeply distressed by your silence. Your sister has suffered immense emotional whiplash from your unprovoked outburst at the reception. You know how delicate her brand partnerships are. Several sponsors have reached out regarding the scene you caused. We expect you to sit down with her and resolve this like adults before your mother’s blood pressure spikes again. Call your sister.*
I do not reply. I sit in my study, the curtains drawn against the bright Chicago glare, working twelve-hour stretches with my right hand on a vertical ergonomic mouse.
When you work in private equity risk management, you learn that people leave digital footprints like slugs leave slime. You cannot lease a luxury vehicle, rent a high-end commercial studio, or negotiate a corporate sponsorship without signing contracts that pass through underwriters. And underwriters, invariably, belong to networks of financial institutions that share risk assessments.
By Tuesday afternoon, I have compiled a thirty-four-page dossier.
Calliope’s company, *Vance Living LLC*, has an operating margin of negative forty-two percent. Her apartment in the West Loop—a gleaming, concrete-and-glass loft that costs $6,200 a month—is four months behind on its commercial rent-to-live lease. The landlord has issued three cure-or-quit notices, all of which were stayed because my father, Alaric, signed personal guarantees as an indemnitor.
To fund those guarantees, Alaric took out a second mortgage on the Oak Brook house in October of last year: $280,000 at a variable interest rate of 9.2%.
And then there is the crown jewel of Calliope’s upcoming reinvention.
For six months, Calliope has been teasing her followers with what she calls *The Temple of Light: A High-Vibration Wellness Sanctuary.* It is a 4,500-square-foot brick-and-timber commercial loft on the fourth floor of *140 South Dearborn*, an iconic 1890s architectural gem in the heart of the Chicago Loop. She has filmed architectural walkthroughs, selected Italian terrazzo tiles, and promised her followers that the grand opening would take place on the first of next month, featuring a flagship partnership with *Aethelgard Skincare*, a high-end European cosmetics line.
What Calliope does not know—what my father, who cosigned the commercial lease, did not bother to verify through a title search—is who owns *140 South Dearborn*.
The building is held by *Dearborn Heritage Holdings LP*, which is a special-purpose vehicle created in 2021.
The managing general partner of *Dearborn Heritage Holdings* is *Vance-Sterling Core Real Estate Fund III*.
And the sole designated officer with unilateral authority over commercial lease terminations, code violation enforcement, and structural indemnity claims for Fund III is the Director of Risk Management.
Me.
On Wednesday morning at 10:14 AM, the summoning arrives.
It comes as an Apple Calendar invite, titled: *Family Healing & Alignment Circle.*
Location: *140 South Dearborn, Floor 4 (The Temple of Light).*
Time: *Thursday, 2:00 PM.*
Attached is a brief note from Calliope:
*Eloen. I know you’re in a dark place right now. The way you attacked me at your wedding broke my heart, but I’ve spent the last three days in meditation and I refuse to carry resentment. Mom and Dad will be there with me. I’ve brought in a mediator to help us navigate this so we can release the trauma and move forward. Please come with an open heart. If you care about this family at all, you will show up ready to take accountability. P.S. Please wear neutral colors; we are filming an update for the community beforehand.*
I sit at my desk and look at the screen.
Lochlan walks in carrying a fresh ice pack for my hand. He looks over my shoulder, reads the words *Family Healing & Alignment Circle*, and lets out a low whistle.
“She wants you to show up at her unfinished studio so she can film you apologizing to her,” he says.
“Yes.”
“With your arm in a cast.”
“Yes.”
“And Mom and Dad are coming to act as her backup chorus.”
“Naturally.”
Lochlan sets the ice pack on the desk, leans his hands on the back of my chair, and presses his chin into the crown of my head. “What is the secret of that building, El?”
I turn my head and look up at him. “She thinks she signed a five-year triple-net commercial lease with an anonymous institutional landlord represented by a commercial brokerage named Apex Property Management. She doesn't know Apex is just the property management vendor we hire to collect the trash and fix the boilers.”
“And?”
“And Section 14, Paragraph C of the Standard Commercial Master Lease for *140 South Dearborn* contains an immediate, non-curable termination clause for any tenant or tenant’s indemnitor who engages in acts of moral turpitude, violent felony conduct, or reputational damage affecting the commercial integrity of the building.”
Lochlan’s eyes light up with a cold, terrifying fire. “You’re going to evict her.”
“Eviction is a civil process that takes sixty days, Lochlan,” I say smoothly. “I am not going to evict her. I am going to void the lease *ab initio* for fraudulent financial misrepresentation on the initial tenant disclosure, declare the space structurally uninsurable due to unauthorized electrical alterations her contractors made for her influencer ring-lighting rigs, and call in the $280,000 indemnity bond against Dad’s second mortgage by Friday morning.”
Lochlan stares at me for five seconds, then drops his head back and laughs—a rich, deep, roaring laugh that fills the quiet study.
“God, I married the right woman,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “Do you want me there?”
“No,” I say. “I want you in the observation room on the fifth floor.”
“There’s an observation room?”
“It’s a 19th-century mercantile exchange building, Lochlan. The fourth floor used to be the main trading pit. The fifth floor has an internal mezzanine with one-way acoustic glass looking straight down into the center of the hall, built so floor supervisors could monitor the telegraph clerks without being seen.”
I pick up my phone, open the calendar invite, and click: *Accept.*
May you like
“Tell Marcus Davies to deliver the security drive to my courier,” I say. “And call Detective Miller at the First District. Tell him I’ll be ready to give my formal statement on the botanical garden assault at 3:30 PM tomorrow afternoon. Right after the healing circle.”
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