I called Northstar’s general counsel before calling my parents back.
Her name was Maya Collins, and after six years of working together, she had taught me one rule better than anyone.
Panic was expensive.
“Send me the photograph,” she said.
Three minutes later, her tone changed.
The booklet claimed Northstar had agreed to become the anchor investor in a luxury senior-living development my father had been trying to finance outside Boston.
It described a “minimum two-million-dollar commitment.”
It also included language suggesting I had personally approved the partnership.
I had never seen the project.
I had never signed anything.
Olivia called again.
“They’re asking questions,” she whispered. “Dad told everyone you were coming later to make an announcement.”
“He told me not to come.”
“I know.”
“Did you know about the booklet?”
Silence.
Then she said, “I knew he was using your company name. I thought you had agreed.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Dad finally called from his own phone.
“Hannah, listen to me. Nothing has closed yet. You can fix this by showing up, shaking a few hands, and saying we’re discussing an investment.”
“We aren’t.”
“You have one hundred eighteen million dollars.”
“No. My company has a distribution partnership valued at that amount. That is not cash sitting in my checking account.”
He exhaled sharply, annoyed that reality had interrupted his performance.
“You’re embarrassing us.”
I laughed once.
“You excluded me because I embarrassed you.”
Mom took the phone.
Her voice was quieter.
“Hannah, there are important people here. Your father has spent months building relationships. Please don’t destroy tonight because you’re hurt.”
I looked at the original text still glowing on my screen.
Only high-society guests.
“Did either of you plan to tell me you were using my company?”
“We were going to explain after the commitments came in.”
Commitments.
The word turned my stomach.
Maya called back on the other line.
One investor had already wired $400,000 into an escrow account after receiving the booklet.
A second had signed a letter of intent.
Both documents referred to Northstar’s supposed participation.
“Do not go to that ballroom,” Maya said. “Do not say anything that could be interpreted as confirming the deal.”
I repeated that to my parents.
Dad exploded.
“You would let your own father lose everything over paperwork?”
Then Olivia screamed in the background.
Someone had handed her another document.
She photographed it and sent it to me.
At the bottom of the investor packet was a signature page.
My signature.
Convincing enough to fool a stranger.
Wrong enough to make my hands go cold.
And directly beneath it was the name of the witness who claimed to have watched me sign.
My mother.
PART 3
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