Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
By 8:00 AM on Friday morning, the city of Chicago was waking up to Black Friday sales, leftover stuffing, and a storm of a very different kind.
Lily and I were settled in Zoe and Marcus’s sprawling penthouse in Lincoln Park. The guest room was warm, filled with sunlight that bounced off the light oak floors, and Lily was sitting on the plush rug, watching cartoons while eating a bowl of strawberries Zoe had cut into little heart shapes. The swelling on her cheek had subsided slightly thanks to the cold compresses Eleanor had applied overnight, but the purple bruising was distinct, looking like an angry badge of betrayal.
My phone had not stopped vibrating since 6:30 AM.
Fifty-two text messages from Mark.
*Chloe, pick up.*
*What is Asteria Holdings?*
*My dad is having chest pains. Are you behind this?*
*Chloe, you’re destroying everything. Call me right now.*
*Don’t do this to us. Think of Lily.*
*Think of Lily.*
The absolute audacity of that sentence made my stomach turn. He hadn't thought of Lily when his sister was screaming in her face. He hadn't thought of Lily when she was crying on the front stoop in sub-freezing temperatures. But now that his inheritance was on the chopping block, Lily was his moral shield.
A knock sounded at the guest room door. Marcus stepped in, holding a steaming mug of tea and a thick manila folder.
"Good morning," he said gently, nodding toward Lily. "How is our patient?"
"She slept through the night," I said quietly, stepping into the hallway so Lily wouldn't overhear our conversation. "She asked if she has to go back to her school on Monday. She’s scared Megan will show up there."
Marcus’s expression hardened. "Megan won't be showing up anywhere near that school. Judge Morales just signed the emergency order of protection. It covers both you and Lily. Megan Peterson is legally barred from being within five hundred feet of you, Lily, your residence, and Lily’s school. If she violates it, she goes straight to Cook County Jail without bail."
"And the criminal charges?"
"Detective Alvarez from the 18th District reached out an hour ago," Marcus replied, opening the folder. "The medical affidavit from Northwestern was unambiguous. Alvarez visited the Peterson residence at 7:15 AM to interview Megan."
A small flare of anticipation ignited in my chest. "How did that go?"
"Predictably," Marcus said with a dry chuckle. "Carol tried to bar the door, Frank threatened to call the Mayor, and Megan barricaded herself in her old bedroom until her personal attorney arrived. Alvarez gave them until noon today to present Megan at the precinct for formal booking, or they will execute an arrest warrant at the house. Megan is being charged with misdemeanor battery of a minor. Because of the clear photographic evidence of physical injury, Alvarez said the State’s Attorney's office declined to reduce the charge."
I exhaled a breath I felt like I had been holding since yesterday afternoon. "Good."
"That’s only half the news," Marcus continued, tapping the back of the folder. "Frank Peterson called my office ten minutes ago. Not his lawyers. Frank himself. He sounded like a man who just realized he walked into a propeller."
"Did he mention Asteria?"
"He didn't just mention it; he begged," Marcus said. "Apparently, Frank tried to refinance the Grandview loan at 7:00 AM through his contacts at Chase and Northern Trust. But once they ran a preliminary search and saw a notice of default had been registered against the primary asset, both banks froze his credit facilities. The Peterson Group’s entire liquidity is tied up in that construction phase. If Asteria initiates foreclosure on Monday, Frank loses the building, his investors pull their capital, and his firm goes into involuntary Chapter 11 bankruptcy."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that Asteria Holdings’ managing director would only communicate in writing," Marcus replied smoothly. "And that any attempt to contact you directly would be viewed as a violation of the protective order by proxy."
Just then, my phone rang again. It wasn't Mark, and it wasn't Carol.
It was an unknown number with a local Chicago area code.
I looked at Marcus. He nodded. I answered and placed it on speaker.
"Chloe?"
The voice was ragged, desperate, and completely stripped of the arrogant, haughty tone it had carried for thirty years. It was Megan.
"Chloe, please don't hang up," Megan gasped. I could hear background noise—sniffling, the clinking of keys, and Carol’s muffled voice frantically scolding someone in the background. "Please, just listen to me."
"You are violating a court-issued emergency order of protection by calling this number, Megan," I said, my voice deadpan and icy.
"I don't care! The police were at the door, Chloe! The police!" Her voice cracked into an ugly, breathless squeal. "They’re going to arrest me! Do you know what that will do to my reputation? To my foundation? I run children’s literacy programs! If a battery charge hits the press, I’ll lose my board seat! I’ll lose everything!"
"You should have thought about children’s literacy before you hit a child in the face," I said coldly.
"It was an accident! I was stressed! Lily was being difficult, and Carol was riding me all morning about my engagement, and I just snapped! You know how Carol gets!" Megan began to weep openly, a desperate, self-serving sound that held no genuine remorse, only terror of consequences. "I’ll apologize to Lily! I’ll buy her whatever she wants! I’ll pay for counseling! Just call the detective and tell them it was a family misunderstanding! Please, Chloe! Mark said you’re trying to ruin Dad’s company too! Why are you doing this to us?"
"To *us*?" I repeated, stepping toward the window overlooking Lincoln Park. "Yesterday, you stood in that dining room, called my daughter a rude little brat, and told me that if I didn't like your violence, I could get out of your house. Carol told me I was ungrateful. Mark told me to use the servants' entrance."
"Mark didn't mean that! He was just trying to keep the peace!"
"Mark is a coward," I said clearly, letting every syllable land like a hammer. "And you are a bully who finally picked on someone who can hit back harder. Turn yourself in to Detective Alvarez, Megan. And make sure your lawyer is good, because Marcus is filing a civil suit for intentional infliction of emotional distress on Monday morning."
"Chloe, no! You can't do this! We’re family!"
"We were never family," I said. "You made that abundantly clear yesterday."
I ended the call, immediately blocking the number.
I looked down at the street below. A sleek black town car had just pulled up near Zoe’s building. The door opened, and Mark stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was wearing the same clothes from Thanksgiving dinner, rumpled and disheveled, his hair unwashed, looking frantically up at the balconies of the high-rise.
He pulled out his phone, dialed, and waited.
Upstairs, my phone remained silent—because I had blocked his number two hours ago.
Marcus stepped to the window and looked down. "Do you want me to have building security escort him off the property?"
I looked at Mark down on the street. He looked so small from up here. For seven years, I had molded myself to fit into his world. I had attended their suffocating country club luncheons, endured Carol’s snide remarks about my modest background, laughed at Frank’s terrible, condescending jokes, and smoothed over Megan’s tantrums—all because I believed that making Mark happy was my job as a wife.
I had shrunk myself so Mark could feel tall.
And the moment the storm hit, he hadn't shielded me. He hadn't shielded our daughter. He had simply stepped aside to keep his own clothes dry.
"No," I told Marcus. "Don't call security."
Marcus looked surprised. "You want to talk to him?"
May you like
"I want him to wait down there," I said, turning away from the window and walking back toward the guest room where Lily was laughing at a cartoon bear on the television screen. "I want him to wait out in the cold for as long as it takes him to realize that door is never opening again."
***
