Kicked Out For My Sister’s Baby I Returned Rich Chapter 11
The next day, Trent went to the address listed in the article and found Second Door.
He’d barely stepped into the lobby before the receptionist stopped him.
“Sir, do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m here to see Thea.” He tightened his grip on the document envelope he was carrying. “I’m family.”
The receptionist checked her system for a moment, then shook her head politely.
“I’m sorry. There’s no record of you in Ms. Holloway’s listed family contacts.”
Trent’s face went pale.
The sound of the argument drifted into my office, and I pushed my door open. When I saw him, my steps faltered for only a beat.
“Can I help you?”
My tone was no different from the one I used for any unfamiliar client.
Trent stared at me, his eyes slowly reddening.
“Thea, I’ve been looking for you for three years.”
He opened the envelope, spilling child support judgments, credit card collection notices, and traffic violation slips across the reception desk.
“I know I was wrong. I’ll find a way to pay back the money from the account. Regina and I have been over for a long time.”
His voice was rough as he hurriedly pushed the papers toward me.
“But I really can’t sort any of this out. You were always the best at handling these things. Will you please just take a look?”
When I said nothing, he stepped closer.
“We can start over. I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”
I listened quietly, then smiled.
A flicker of hope lit Trent’s eyes.
I reached into my cardholder, drew out a business card, and set it on top of the notices.
“Second Door provides financial organization services. You’re welcome to book a consultation. We bill by the hour.”
His hand froze in midair.
“Thea, I didn’t come here as a client.”
His hand froze in midair.
“Thea, I didn’t come here as a client.”
“But to me, that’s all you can be.”
I looked at him.
“Our personal relationship ended the day you emptied our joint account. As for your debts, your child support, and the rest of this wreckage—that’s your life now. It’s no longer my job.”
The receptionist had already moved to his side, one hand raised in a clear gesture toward the door.
Trent tried to speak again, but I picked up the document envelope from the desk and pressed it back into his arms.
“The appointment line is on the card. If you don’t make one, don’t come back.”
He was steered toward the door, turning to look back every few steps.
I never looked at him again.
The glass door closed behind him.
Like a salesman who’d wandered into the wrong building, he was politely and firmly shown out.