CHAPTER FOUR – THE PAPER TRAIL.
My dad's study wasn't a place I belonged, yet there I stood in deep remembrance of his departure.
The heavy brown door stayed closed my whole childhood,"not allowed," he'd explain, messing up my hair as he walked past into the room. Hours went by while he was in there - just work stuff, nothing more. Yet here I am now, frozen in the frame at 2 AM. Everything clicks only tonight.
A scent of worn leather hung in the air, mixed with something bitter, like words never kept.
Three days passed while I kept calling him after the charity event fell apart. Each time, only his voicemail answered. My mother wouldn't say much, just short replies or quiet stares.
Then Marcus said he had no time for coffee, which wasn't like him at all. It didn't add up. A chill ran through me, similar to what I sensed half a year earlier when Dad stopped showing up for our usual dinners out of nowhere.
A shadow stretched from the lamp, creeping over piles of paper,I stepped closer with feet subdued by the thick weave of the rug.
A cold wave hit when I opened that first folder.
That bold headline burned bright in red ink: "FORECLOSURE NOTICE - FINAL WARNING." My fingers trembled as I tore the envelope open. Those Westbridge apartments - what dad always called his greatest win, what he brought up each holiday mealtime without fail are meant to have escaped three mortgage deadlines straight.
A second folder came into my hands. After that, one more.
One after another, things got uglier. Projects in Brooklyn fell apart completely, a planned mall in Queens stayed only on paper, unpaid taxes piled up fast.
Late charges followed close behind,after which came a loan request, sent to some unknown bank, with "DENIED" slapped hard across the top.
My voice slipped out, soft, asking the quiet air a question it would not answer.
Built like a fortress, my father - Benjamin Ashford, shaped much of Manhattan's tallest buildings. Power leaned into his shadow; city leaders wanted his nod, as covers of finance journals showed his face often. Nothing ever seemed able to reach him.
The old drawer slid out with a sharp sound arising from friction.. It had been stuck before, but today it moved easily.
A half-gone bottle of scotch crept across the surface. Hidden behind, inside a cracked leather case, sat bundled pages held by an old rubber tie. With trembling fingers, I pulled out the top letter.
Frozen inside, I stared at the paper - Pierce Development Corporation glared back from the top.
Mr. Ashford,
This moment could change everything because generous conditions meet your present situation head on. Refusal could moves us toward different paths of takeover. Your next step decides what comes after.
Time moves forward.
Alexander Pierce
A while back, around eight months gone. Flipping through the stack now, every note felt heavier, darker, yet all carried that curly signature, bearing a sense of self satisfaction, identical in its cold precision.
Alexander Pierce.
It's completely funny how a word can pierce and burn going down. I'd caught it floating through crowded rooms, passed between men who worked with my father. Not loud, never that, but quiet, careful, like they were afraid of waking something.
This company, Pierce Development, kept showing up wherever things went wrong. When buildings cracked or owners gave up, there they stood, already holding the keys.
A fortnight had passed since the previous note arrived. Staring at the paper, I stumbled over words - each one heavier than the last: "inevitable bankruptcy," they said, then "salvage what remains."
By the time I reached "protect your family's reputation," my breath felt shallow, trapped somewhere beneath my ribs
That is when my eyes landed on it. Last of all came that section near the end.
Now here's a chance that doesn't come every day. Maybe it's worth talking about how things could work out well for both of us.
A sudden breeze caught it just as my grip failed.
Was I involved? Not at all. No serious relationships, commitments or obligations on my side. Except maybe -
A shocking impact ran through me, mom wanting me at the Pierce Industries upcoming event. She didn't just suggest, rather urged me to honor the event. All of a sudden, she became curious about who I spend most of my time with.
Only this morning, I found a green dress lying on my mattress with a message tucked under it.
"Put this on Saturday for it matters more than you may know."
Was someone offering me up like a product on display?
The one who showed me how to bargain, stay calm and hold my ground, now is the one who looks at me like something to be bartered. The very man whom my dad, once full of lessons about strength, suddenly saw value only in exchange.
His voice, firm when guiding me through tough talks, now found it difficult bargaining over terms without hesitation. The person I learned self-respect from, at this moment, acted as if I had none.
He spoke calmly, not realizing the weight behind each word. Lessons meant to protect me were twisted into tools for disposal. Standing there, listening, felt less like betrayal and more like collapse.
Down in his leather seat, papers everywhere showing how lost he'd become. One moment, I thought about setting it on fire, acting like none of it existed. Then again, something else pulled at me, the same fierce need for truth he always carried.
The screen lit up. A message from mom popped in. A gentle reminder of seven o'clock on Saturday. She said not to forget the blue dress, she wants me to put it on. Be there on time, she wrote.
A silence settled while my eyes moved from screen to paper. The words on the display lingered, yet the loose pages pulled harder. Each letter lay where it fell, unsorted, waiting without asking.
Father stood in Alexander Pierce's way, but only his plan needed to clear that obstacle.
Somehow, it fell on me to keep things calm
End of Chapter Four.