Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE SHE CALLED HERS
By Wednesday morning, Delilah had stopped calling me.
That frightened me more than her screaming would have.
Silence meant strategy.
And Delilah had always been very good at strategy when she believed she was losing.
Arthur’s team spent most of Tuesday communicating with Mercer National, our forensic accountants, and outside corporate counsel.
The disputed wire to Northstar Media Holdings was frozen.
The bank temporarily suspended further draws.
Every server connected to Bellamy Literary Group was preserved.
We also learned that Kayla Morgan, my executive assistant, had requested an indefinite leave of absence at 6:04 that morning.
She did not answer her phone.
She had not returned her company laptop.
Naomi called me at 8:15.
“We’ve disabled the device remotely.”
“Can she still erase it?”
“The forensic people say they captured a cloud image first.”
“Good.”
“Henrietta?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a reporter in the lobby.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course there was.
“From where?”
“The Philadelphia Ledger.”
“What does she want?”
“She says she’s investigating allegations that you physically and financially abused your granddaughter.”
For three full seconds, I said nothing.
Then I laughed.
Naomi sounded worried.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
But there was something almost impressive about the speed.
My cheek had barely changed color and already I was apparently the abuser.
“What exactly is she alleging?”
“Control of Delilah’s home, finances, career, and inheritance.”
Inheritance.
A fascinating word for money belonging to a person who was still alive.
“Tell the reporter we have no comment beyond saying the company is conducting an internal governance review.”
“Should we mention the assault?”
“No.”
Naomi hesitated.
“Why not?”
“Because Delilah wants a public fight.”
“And?”
“I’m not giving her one before we know what she’s hiding.”
After we ended the call, Arthur arrived.
He carried coffee and a printed copy of an online article.
The headline read:
PUBLISHING MATRIARCH ACCUSED OF USING FORTUNE TO CONTROL GRANDDAUGHTER.
The article quoted anonymous “family sources.”
According to them, I had manipulated Delilah since childhood.
Used money to dictate her education.
Blocked her professional independence.
Threatened to make her homeless.
And reacted “violently” when Delilah announced plans for modern leadership at Vance Publishing.
No mention of the slap.
Naturally.
Arthur placed the article on my desk.
“Don’t respond.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“Who do you think leaked it?”
“Delilah.”
“You sound certain.”
“I’ve been your lawyer thirty years. I know what family warfare looks like.”
I looked down at the article again.
Then a familiar name caught my eye.
A quote from an unnamed “person close to the Bellamy family” claimed Delilah’s Potomac residence had been given to her outright and that I was now attempting to “seize” it.
I pushed the paper toward Arthur.
“She thinks the house is hers.”
“Yes.”
“You said we can terminate the occupancy under certain conditions.”
“Yes, but I strongly recommend we don’t rush it.”
“I agree.”
He looked surprised.
“I want an inspection.”
That caught his attention.
“Of the trust property?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Delilah registered the agency there.”
Arthur understood.
Two days later, accompanied by the trust’s property manager and legal counsel, I arrived in Potomac.
I had notified Delilah twenty-four hours in advance, as required.
She did not answer.
Lucas did.
He opened the front door wearing jeans and a wrinkled blue shirt.
He looked as though he had not slept.
“Henrietta.”
“Lucas.”
His eyes went directly to my bruised face.
Then away.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“The trust owns the property.”
“I know.”
The words surprised me.
“You know?”
He rubbed a hand across his mouth.
“I know now.”
Interesting.
We entered.
The house was enormous.
Twelve thousand square feet of limestone, glass, walnut, and expensive restraint.
I had paid for much of it.
Yet standing there, I realized how little time I had spent inside.
Delilah usually preferred visiting me.
Perhaps because my house reminded everyone whose history mattered.
The property manager began checking documented renovations.
I walked toward the rear hallway.
Lucas followed.
“Where is Delilah?”
“At a hotel.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
“That makes two of us.”
He almost smiled.
Then he stopped.
“Henrietta.”
I turned.
“I’m sorry about your face.”
“That is an interesting sentence.”
He winced.
“I should have stopped her.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think she’d actually hit you.”
“She had been telling me I should be dead for almost a minute.”
“I know.”
“You were sitting three seats away.”
“I know.”
“You said nothing.”
His shame was genuine.
“I know.”
I studied him.
“What is Northstar Media Holdings?”
Every bit of color disappeared from Lucas Bellamy’s face.
That was answer enough.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Seven-point-four million dollars worth of reasons.”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then lowered his voice.
“You need to leave.”
“No.”
“Henrietta, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Finally, he whispered, “Not here.”
I almost asked why.
Then the property manager called from the rear carriage house.
“Mrs. Vance?”
We followed.
The first floor looked normal.
Desk.
Shelving.
Small conference room.
Photography lights.
Two computers.
But at the back was a steel door.
The property manager frowned.
“This isn’t in the renovation plans.”
Lucas stopped walking.
My attention sharpened.
“What is behind it?”
He didn’t answer.
The manager tried the handle.
Locked.
“Do you have a key?”
I asked Lucas.
“No.”
“Does Delilah?”
“I don’t know.”
A lie.
I could see it.
Our counsel stepped forward.
“This structure belongs to Hawthorne Residential Trust. We’re entitled to access.”
Lucas looked sick.
“I really don’t think—”
The locksmith arrived twenty minutes later.
When the door opened, I expected files.
Maybe wine.
Maybe expensive equipment purchased with agency money.
I did not expect eight metal shelves containing hundreds of books.
At first, that seemed harmless.
Then I looked closer.
Advance reader copies.
Unreleased manuscripts.
Limited editions.
Foreign proofs.
Signed first editions.
Some were Vance Publishing properties.
I picked up a bound manuscript.
THE HOLLOW WINTER by Miriam Hale.
Publication date stamped inside:
Six months in the future.
“How did this get here?”
Nobody answered.
I found another.
And another.
Confidential author material.
Unreleased contracts.
Acquisition notes.
Marketing proposals.
A box labeled FOREIGN RIGHTS — VANCE.
My stomach dropped.
These were not Delilah’s agency files.
They were ours.
“How long has this room existed?”
The property manager checked his tablet.
“The alteration permit was issued nine months ago.”
“Who requested it?”
He scrolled.
“Bellamy Literary Group.”
I turned to Lucas.
His face had gone gray.
“Start talking.”
He sank into a chair.
“I told her this would happen.”
“Told whom?”
“Delilah.”
“What is Northstar?”
He looked at the lawyers.
“Do I need my own attorney?”
Arthur, who had joined by video call, answered through my phone.
“You probably should have asked that months ago.”
Lucas closed his eyes.
Then he said, “Northstar was supposed to be our exit.”
“My exit from what?”
“From Vance.”
My skin went cold.
He continued.
“Delilah believed you were never going to retire.”
“She was correct.”
“She thought if she waited, she’d be fifty before she controlled anything.”
“So she created another company.”
“Yes.”
“With money guaranteed in my name.”
Lucas looked down.
“I didn’t know your signature was forged.”
“Did you guarantee the loan?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Delilah told me you had approved the structure.”
“And you believed her?”
“She showed me the paperwork.”
“What was Northstar supposed to do?”
He hesitated.
“Acquire Bellamy Literary Group.”
Arthur’s voice came sharply through the speaker.
“With what money?”
“The credit line.”
I stared at Lucas.
“Let me understand.”
He swallowed.
“Bellamy borrowed money.”
“Yes.”
“Then intended to move that money to Northstar.”
“Yes.”
“And Northstar would use that same money to buy Bellamy.”
“Yes.”
Arthur muttered something I had not heard him say in thirty years.
It was not polite.
I continued.
“And after the purchase?”
Lucas looked miserable.
“Delilah planned to recruit authors away from Vance.”
The room became silent.
The hidden manuscripts suddenly made sense.
Not storage.
Intelligence.
Acquisition lists.
Publication schedules.
Contract terms.
She had been collecting proprietary information from my company while serving as executive vice president.
“Who gave her these?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lucas.”
“I swear.”
He stood suddenly.
“I knew about Northstar. I knew she wanted independence. I knew she was talking to authors. But I did not know she had stolen confidential files.”
“Then why were you afraid when I asked about Northstar?”
“Because there’s more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“My father invested.”
“How much?”
“Five million.”
“In Northstar?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Two other investors.”
“Names.”
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Names.”
He gave them.
Raymond Cole.
My board member.
And Derek Shaw.
Delilah’s CFO.
I felt something inside me become absolutely still.
Raymond had been at my birthday.
He had watched Delilah slap me.
Then the following morning, he attended her secret board meeting to question my competency.
Now I understood why.
This was never only about Delilah’s impatience.
Someone had been helping her prepare to hollow out my company.
My phone buzzed.
Naomi.
I answered.
“We found Kayla.”
“Where?”
“She contacted HR through an attorney.”
“Why?”
Naomi inhaled.
“She wants whistleblower protection.”
Arthur immediately became silent.
“What does she claim to know?”
“She says Delilah ordered her to use your electronic credentials.”
Lucas sat down again.
Naomi continued.
“And she says she can prove Delilah knew exactly what she was doing.”
I looked around the secret room filled with my company’s confidential materials.
At the house Delilah called hers.
At the husband who suddenly appeared terrified of his wife.
At shelves containing evidence of something far larger than an inheritance dispute.
“Naomi.”
“Yes?”
“Secure Raymond Cole’s company access.”
“Already done.”
“And convene the independent directors.”
“When?”
I looked at my bruised reflection in the dark computer screen.
“Today.”
Lucas stared at me.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at him.
“The same thing I should have done years ago.”
May you like
“What?”
“Require my granddaughter to live in a world where actions have consequences.”
