Chapter 11 - The Buyer Who Wanted Tessa
The competing buyer was Victor Sloane.
That explained everything.
Victor did not want Tessa because he cared where she lived.
He wanted leverage.
His offer was lower than the developer’s, but it came with a bizarre arrangement allowing Tessa to remain as a tenant.
In return, a portion of the purchase price would satisfy her private debt.
“He’s trying to structure his collection through your property,” Rebecca said.
“Can he?”
“Not without you agreeing.”
“I don’t.”
“Then no.”
For once, the answer was simple.
Victor called me anyway.
Polite voice.
Professional tone.
“I understand you’re selling Brookfield.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve made an offer.”
“I declined it.”
“You may want to reconsider.”
“I don’t.”
“Ian, your sister owes me money.”
“That sounds like a conversation between you and my sister.”
“She represented that the family intended to transfer the property.”
“She represented a lot of things.”
“She showed me documentation.”
“Fake documentation.”
A pause.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“Then you understand why I won’t let my property settle her debt.”
Victor sighed.
“I’m not your enemy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m trying to find a clean resolution.”
“So am I.”
“And what happens to Tessa?”
The question annoyed me.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Victor laughed softly.
“Because everyone knows you usually solve things.”
Not anymore.
“I’m selling the house to the highest clean offer.”
Then I hung up.
The development company remained the strongest buyer.
Rebecca cleared the major title issues.
David accepted relocation assistance from me voluntarily—not because I legally created the mess, but because I could afford to help and he had been caught in something he never asked for.
He found a new apartment within ten days.
He hugged me when he moved.
“You’re nothing like your father described.”
I almost asked what Dad had said.
Then decided I didn’t need another answer.
My parents, however, still had nowhere to go.
Not because they were poor.
That was another illusion.
Dad received a pension.
Mom had retirement income.
Together they could afford a modest apartment.
They simply did not want one.
They wanted the house.
More specifically, they wanted the life they had built inside a property someone else maintained.
Dad called with a proposal.
“What if we pay rent?”
That surprised me.
“How much?”
He named a number.
It was less than half the market rate.
“No.”
He sounded wounded.
“You don’t need market rent.”
“The house is under contract.”
“You haven’t closed.”
“I’m going to.”
“What if we buy it?”
I almost laughed.
“With what money?”
There was a pause.
“We have some savings.”
“How much?”
“Not enough.”
“Then no.”
“We could finance.”
“At your age?”
“That’s our problem.”
He was right.
It was.
“If you can produce a legitimate offer matching the developer’s terms, I’ll review it.”
He fell silent.
“You’d really make your own parents compete?”
“I’d treat you like adults.”
Apparently that was worse.
He hung up.
Three days later, they applied for an apartment.
The world did not end.
Nobody became homeless.
Mom hated the kitchen.
Dad complained about parking.
But there were elevators, two bedrooms, and a small balcony.
They could afford it.
The tragedy was mostly that consequences had finally arrived.
Tessa refused to go with them.
“I’m not living in some apartment like I’m eighty.”
Mom told me this over the phone.
“Where is she going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then she should figure it out.”
“Ian.”
“Mom.”
“She’s your sister.”
“And she’s thirty-two.”
Mom went quiet.
Then, for once, she said, “You’re right.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“She needs to figure it out.”
That was the first real sign anything might change.
But Tessa wasn’t finished.
Two days before she was supposed to remove her business inventory from Brookfield, I received a call from Amanda, my manager at the downtown restaurant.
“There’s a woman here asking for you.”
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
“What does she want?”
“She’s carrying a box.”
My stomach tightened.
“Don’t let her near the office.”
“I didn’t.”
“What’s in the box?”
Amanda lowered her voice.
“Copies of your restaurant financial records.”
I stood.
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
May you like
Tessa had one last weapon.
And this time, it had nothing to do with the house.
