My Family Sold Me For $7 Million. I Owned Their Building Chapter 05
Scores of slim burgundy document jackets, certified title abstracts, trust certificates, and original title insurance policies poured across the conference table. Some slid over the edge and carpeted the floor.
The room went silent.
Chloe recovered first. She nudged one of the document jackets with the pointed toe of her shoe, then gave an exaggerated laugh.
“What is wrong with you? Why would anyone make this many fake title files?”
She picked one up and threw it down without opening it.
“Look, Dad. I told you something was wrong with her. She printed a bag of fake closing papers so she could pretend to be rich. The real South Harbor file isn’t here. She’s just insane.”
Diane exhaled in relief.
“What a disgusting stunt. Throw her and all this garbage outside. Victor has a contract to sign.”
A vein pulsed in Richard’s forehead. He raised his hand to strike me.
“Get this curse out of my building.”
I lifted my forearm and blocked him.
At that instant, the double doors swung open.
Measured footsteps cut through the chaos.
Adrian entered in a perfectly tailored black suit. Ethan followed with a thick set of documents.
Everyone fell quiet.
Richard froze with his hand still raised. Then he lowered it and hurried forward with a servile smile.
“Mr. Hawthorne, I had no idea you were coming. We would have prepared a proper welcome.”
Victor abandoned his contract and squeezed past Richard.
“Adrian, I didn’t have time to explain everything yesterday. About the South Harbor project…”
Adrian ignored them both.
His gaze traveled over the people in the room and settled on the title files scattered across the floor.
Chloe assumed the mess offended him.
Eager to impress the most powerful man in New York real estate, she strode forward and kicked one of the folders.
“Please excuse this, Mr. Hawthorne. My sister grew up in the country, and she isn’t quite right in the head. She brought a pile of fake real estate files into the boardroom. I’ll have someone sweep them out.”
The folder skimmed over the polished floor and stopped against the toe of Adrian’s handmade Italian shoe.
Its cover had fallen open, revealing a certified copy of a recorded Manhattan deed. The first page bore a City Register recording stamp, a document identification number, and the seal of the title company that had insured the transaction.
Adrian stopped.
He bent down, caught the corner of the folder between two long fingers, and picked it up.
Victor laughed nervously beside him.
“Don’t dirty your hands with that counterfeit trash.”
His voice died when Adrian turned the page.
The certification seal caught the conference room lights. The recording number, tax-lot designation, and notarized signatures were clearly visible.
Adrian studied them for two seconds.
Then he looked past everyone in the room and found me in the corner, where the guards still had their hands on my shoulders.
He raised the folder and tapped its cover with one finger. The crisp sound carried through the silent room.
“Avery Monroe.”
A trace of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“You never hesitate to collect forty million dollars in quarterly rent from me. How did New York’s toughest landlord end up pinned in a corner?”