Chapter 13 - The First AuditBy December, the winter wind off Lake Michigan was howling through the concrete canyons of downtown Chicago, bringing freezing temperatures and swirling snow flurries.
Down at the 4th Street plaza, Vance Studio had officially opened its doors.
From my office window on the forty-second floor, I could see the illuminated storefront across the street. The window display featured sleek Scandinavian furniture, minimalist velvet armchairs, and expensive brass lighting fixtures.
True to our word, Marcus Vance and his property management team hadn't harassed Victoria. They hadn't sabotaged her grand opening. They had simply treated her like any other commercial tenant—which, for someone accustomed to operating on family favors and fraudulent credit lines, was an insurmountable obstacle.
On a freezing Thursday afternoon, Marcus walked into my office carrying a thick manila folder.
"How is the boutique doing?" I asked, spinning around in my chair.
"Better than expected on the design side," Marcus reported with a grin, setting the folder on my desk. "She’s actually got a decent eye for aesthetics. High-end clients are wandering in. But her administrative discipline is a disaster."
He opened the folder to reveal a series of financial logs and correspondence letters.
"What am I looking at?" I asked.
"Commercial rent is due on the first of every month with a strict three-day grace period," Marcus explained. "December first came and went. No payment from Vance Studio. On December fifth, our finance department sent an automated late notice with a standard five-hundred-dollar late fee."
"And?"
"And instead of paying it, Victoria marched down to the property management office yesterday morning, demanded to speak to the senior director, and threw a screaming fit in the lobby," Marcus chuckled. "She told our assistant manager that because her family name is Vance, she shouldn't have to pay petty late fees to a corporate landlord."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did she mention which branch of the family she belongs to?"
"She tried," Marcus said. "She claimed she was your sister and that you would personally waive the fee if you knew about it. Our assistant manager—who was hired six months ago and doesn't know the family drama—politely told her that the rules apply equally to everyone, and gave her forty-eight hours to clear the balance or face a formal notice of default."
I picked up the late notice log, scanning the numbers.
May you like
"She thinks the world still owes her a discount," I said softly, closing the folder. "Send her the formal notice of default tomorrow morning if the wire transfer doesn't clear by midnight."
"It's already queued for delivery at 8:00 AM sharp," Marcus said, tipping an imaginary hat.
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