I took the mug, eyeing him suspiciously. Damon never did anything without a motive. “Thank you,” I said cautiously, taking a sip. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He leaned against the marble island, crossing his ankles. “I have been thinking about you, Audrey, about what mom said at dinner last night. It was harsh, but you know, she only wants what is best for you. I want to help you, too.”
I stayed silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He pulled a folder from the counter. It was not the invoice this time. It was a legal document.
“I know dad left you that small trust fund,” he continued, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “$200,000 right? It is sitting in a low yield savings account doing absolutely nothing. Inflation is eating it alive. As your brother-in-law and a financial expert, I hate to see you losing money. I want to help you manage it.”
I set my mug down. “You want to manage my trust fund?” I asked, widening my eyes in mock innocence. “But Damon, I thought you said I was bad with money. Wouldn’t it be safer in the bank?”
He laughed a short condescending sound. “That is exactly why you need me. The markets are volatile, Audrey. You need sophisticated management. I can roll that money into one of my high-erforming equity funds. I can double it in a year. You would not have to worry about invoices for dinner ever again. Just sign this power of attorney and I will handle everything.”
He slid the document toward me along with a gold pen. I picked up the paper, pretending to read it. It was a standard transfer of assets granting him full control. He wanted to liquidate my inheritance to plug the hole in his sinking company.
“So this is like a mutual fund,” I asked, looking up at him blankly. “Like the ones they advertise on TV?”
Damon sighed, his patience already fraying. “No, Audrey, it is much more complex than that. It is an exclusive vehicle for accredited investors. You would not understand the technicalities. Just know that I am doing you a huge favor.”
“But what about the risk?” I pressed, putting on my most confused expression. “If the market crashes, do I lose everything or is it insured like the bank?”
He slammed his hand down on the counter just a fraction too hard. The mask slipped. “Jesus, Audrey, stop asking stupid questions. Do you want to be poor forever? Do you want to be the pathetic sister who cannot pay for her own dinner? I am offering you a lifeline. Sign the damn paper.”
I looked at his flushed face, the vein throbbing in his temple. He was desperate. He needed my 200 grand to buy himself another day of life. I pushed the paper back toward him.
“I think I will stick with the bank,” I said calmly. “I like knowing exactly where my money is.”
Damon stared at me, his eyes cold and venomous. “You are making a mistake,” he hissed, grabbing the folder. “A huge mistake. When you come crawling to me for a loan, do not expect any mercy.” He stormed out of the kitchen, leaving his latte untouched. I watched him go, smiling into my cup. He was right about one thing. Someone was making a huge mistake, but it was not me.
Damon moved faster than I expected, blocking the archway between the kitchen and the living room. His friendly brother-in-law act had evaporated completely, leaving behind the ruthless litigator who destroyed lives for a living.
“You think you have a choice here, Audrey?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You think you can just walk away with that money while this family bleeds?”
I stopped, clutching the edge of the granite counter. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin. “I am not asking you anymore,” he continued, stepping closer until I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “I am telling you. If you do not sign that power of attorney voluntarily, I will file a petition with the probate court first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Do you know what a conservatorship is, Audrey?” I stared at him, my heart pounding against my ribs. He was actually threatening to lock me away.
“You would not dare,” I whispered.
“Try me,” he sneered. “It would be so easy. I can paint a very convincing picture for a judge. A 33-year-old woman who dropped out of medical school due to a mental breakdown. A woman who has been unemployed for two years living off her mother charity. A woman who shows signs of irrational behavior and financial incompetence.”
“I have friends on the bench, Audrey. Friends who owe me favors. All I need is one signature from a doctor, and I know plenty of those, too. We can have you declared mentally incapacitated before you even finish packing your bags.”
He paused, letting the weight of his threat sink in. He was weaponizing my lowest moments against me. The time I took off to grieve my father. He was twisting it into a diagnosis of insanity.
“Once I have conservatorship, I will control everything,” he said, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Your bank accounts, your medical decisions, even your freedom to travel. I will be your legal guardian, and I will liquidate that trust fund to save my company whether you like it or not.”
“But that is illegal,” I stammered, playing the part of the terrified victim perfectly. “You cannot just take away my rights because you need money.”
Damon laughed, a cold hard sound that echoed off the high ceilings. “Oh, grow up, Audrey. Stop living in a fairy tale. In America, the law protects the people with money, not unemployed failures like you. The law is a weapon, and I am holding the gun.”
He straightened his robe, looking down at me with absolute contempt. “I will leave the papers on the dining table. You have until dinner to sign them. If they are not signed by the time we sit down to eat, I am making the call. Do not test me.”
He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the kitchen. My hands were shaking, but not from fear. I was shaking with rage. He had just admitted to conspiracy and extortion. And he had no idea that the security camera in the corner of the kitchen, which I had installed myself during my last visit, had recorded every single word.
The door to my guest suite did not just open, it exploded inward. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the snow falling outside when Pamela marched in. She did not look like the elegant matriarch who had toasted with champagne the night before. Her hair was slightly disheveled and her eyes were wild with a mix of panic and fury.
“Damon told me everything,” she announced, slamming the door behind her. “He told me you refusing to help the family. He told me you were choosing to let us sink.”
