Chapter 2 - Eight Months Without a Paycheck
Susan met us at Grady Memorial just after one in the morning.
Not because Chloe needed emergency surgery.
Because she was weak, dehydrated, underweight, and shaking so badly that Susan took one look at her and said:
“We are documenting first.”
A police officer had already taken an initial statement at The Hearth.
Damian stayed behind with his attorney on the phone.
He had not been arrested that night.
Good.
Evidence first.
At the hospital, a physician examined Chloe.
Mild dehydration.
Nutritional deficiency.
Anemia.
Stress-related gastritis.
Bruising on wrists and upper arms in various stages of healing.
No broken bones.
No dramatic hidden injury.
The truth was already bad enough.
The doctor asked:
“When did you last eat a normal meal?”
Chloe stared at blanket.
“I don’t know.”
“Today?”
“No.”
“Yesterday?”
“Staff soup.”
“When was your last full meal?”
Her eyes filled.
“Maybe Sunday.”
It was Thursday morning.
I covered my mouth.
Susan sat beside us.
“Chloe, I need to ask something as your mother’s friend, not yet as your lawyer.”
Chloe nodded.
“Do you want to go back to Damian tonight?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Do you feel safe with him?”
“No.”
“Do you want an attorney of your own?”
“Yes.”
Susan nodded.
“Then I’m going to refer you to my colleague for family law, and I can handle employment and financial issues if conflicts permit.”
She was fifty-nine.
Sharp.
Patient.
The kind of lawyer who disliked speeches and loved paper.
She opened the white envelope only after police photographed it and confirmed Chloe could retain copies while originals or evidentiary items were handled properly.
The first document was a payroll summary from Prescott Hospitality Group.
Employee:
Chloe Prescott.
Title:
Creative Director and Operations Consultant.
Annual salary:
$84,000.
Monthly payroll entries appeared for eight months.
I stared.
“You were being paid?”
Chloe shook her head.
“No.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
Susan leaned closer.
“Any deposits?”
“Nothing.”
“Cash?”
“No.”
“Joint account?”
“Damian took me off the main account six months ago.”
“Did you ever see pay stubs?”
“He said payroll was only for taxes because I was his wife.”
Susan looked up.
“That makes no sense.”
“I know now.”
Another report showed direct deposits.
Each supposed paycheck went into an account ending in 7713.
“Whose account?”
Chloe whispered:
“I don’t know.”
Susan wrote number down.
Police could subpoena later.
Next document.
Employment agreement.
Salary $84,000.
Benefits.
Intellectual-property assignment.
Confidentiality.
Noncompetition language.
Chloe’s signature at bottom.
“Did you sign this?”
“Yes.”
“Read it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Damian put it in front of me after wedding and said it was restaurant health insurance enrollment.”
Susan looked at me.
Then back at Chloe.
“Did anyone witness?”
“His accountant.”
“Name?”
“Peter Ames.”
Another page.
A personal guarantee.
$480,000 equipment and working-capital facility.
Guarantor:
Chloe Prescott.
Secured assets included her interest in Miller Studio LLC.
My daughter’s old graphic-design studio.
The business she had spent seven years building.
“Did you sign this?”
She stared.
“I don’t remember.”
Susan did not push.
“Good answer.”
Chloe looked confused.
“If you don’t remember, say you don’t remember. We compare signatures and records.”
Then insurance documents.
Three policies.
One existing personal life policy Chloe bought years before marriage.
Face amount:
$500,000.
Original beneficiary had been me.
A beneficiary change form now listed Damian.
That could be completely lawful if Chloe signed willingly.
She did not remember doing it.
Second:
$750,000 term policy purchased after marriage.
Beneficiary Damian.
Third:
$1.25 million business-owned policy listing Prescott Hospitality Group as owner and beneficiary, describing Chloe as a “key executive essential to restaurant brand operations.”
Susan leaned back.
“Life insurance is not proof someone planned to hurt you.”
“I know,” Chloe whispered.
“But the consent and ownership documents matter.”
Chloe nodded.
“He made me sign things.”
“How?”
“He would keep me awake after closing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Sometimes until three or four. Then he’d put papers in front of me.”
“Did he threaten?”
“If I didn’t sign, he said I wouldn’t eat. Or I couldn’t call you. Or he’d fire me and tell everyone I stole from the restaurant.”
Susan’s face hardened.
“That is coercion. Whether each document can be invalidated will depend on evidence.”
Then came a subscription agreement.
According to it, Chloe had invested $300,000 into The Hearth’s holding company.
She laughed.
A terrible sound.
“I don’t have three hundred thousand.”
I knew exactly how much she had once had.
After her father died, a modest trust matured when she turned thirty.
Roughly $186,000 remained after she bought her condo and funded studio.
Most of that was gone now.
“Where did your inheritance go?” I asked.
Chloe looked at me.
“Damian said restaurant needed a temporary loan.”
“How much?”
“One hundred forty.”
I closed eyes.
“Did he repay?”
“No.”
Susan kept turning pages.
Then stopped.
“Margaret.”
“What?”
The last document was dated six weeks earlier.
A restaurant refinancing agreement.
It represented to a lender that:
Chloe was a paid executive.
Chloe had invested $300,000.
Chloe guaranteed $480,000.
Her design studio assets were available as secondary collateral.
And three insurance policies supported “key-person continuity.”
Susan looked at my daughter.
“Did you authorize this package?”
“No.”
“Did you know it existed?”
“No.”
Chloe started crying.
“He kept telling me I owed him because the restaurant gave me a purpose.”
I moved closer.
“You had a purpose before him.”
She covered her face.
“No, Mom.”
May you like
“What?”
“He convinced me I didn’t.”
