Chapter 2 - EIGHT MONTHS WITHOUT A PAYCHECKChloe’s old design studio occupied the second floor of a converted warehouse in Grant Park.
I remembered helping her move in six years earlier.
Back then, she had been unstoppable.
She painted the brick walls herself. Built desks from reclaimed wood. Put up a ridiculous neon sign that read MAKE SOMETHING WORTH REMEMBERING.
She had seven clients within her first month.
By thirty, she was making more money than I ever had as a teacher.
Then Damian arrived.
According to Chloe, he believed in her more than anyone.
That was what she had told me.
Standing in the dark studio that evening, I realized how effectively he had dismantled everything she had built.
The neon sign was gone.
Dust covered the drafting tables.
Unopened mail was stacked inside the door.
“What happened here?” I asked.
Chloe stared around the room.
“I stopped coming.”
“Why?”
“Damian needed me at the restaurant.”
“For how long?”
“About eight months.”
I turned.
“Eight months?”
“He said it would only be temporary.”
She avoided my eyes.
“How much is he paying you?”
Nothing.
She didn’t have to say it.
I already knew.
“Chloe.”
“He says my salary goes toward what I owe.”
“What do you owe?”
“That’s complicated.”
“No. He made it complicated. Tell me what you know.”
She sat on a dusty chair.
When she began talking, the whole story came out.
Damian had proposed the restaurant eighteen months earlier.
He had spent years building a reputation as a talented chef, but banks weren’t interested in financing him because his credit was poor and two previous restaurant projects had collapsed.
Chloe had excellent credit.
Savings.
A profitable business.
And a condo she owned outright after her father left her money in his estate.
Damian convinced her that putting certain documents in her name would make financing easier.
“He said we were married,” Chloe whispered. “He said we were building it together.”
“How much money did you put in?”
“Originally?”
“Yes.”
“A hundred and twenty thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
It was nearly everything she had saved.
“And your condo?”
“He said it was collateral temporarily.”
My eyes opened.
“Your condo is collateral?”
She nodded.
“That’s why I couldn’t leave.”
I sat beside her.
“Sweetheart, people walk away from houses every day. You do not stay somewhere unsafe because of property.”
“It’s not only the condo.”
“What else?”
She walked across the studio and knelt beside a cabinet.
From behind a stack of sample books, she removed a plastic document envelope.
Her fingers trembled as she gave it to me.
Inside was a photocopied contract.
At the top:
PRESCOTT HOSPITALITY GROUP — OPERATING AGREEMENT
Chloe pointed to a paragraph she had highlighted.
I read it once.
Then again.
“Fifty-one percent?”
She nodded.
According to the agreement, Chloe held fifty-one percent of Prescott Hospitality Group.
Damian held forty-nine.
“You own the company?”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“I signed so much paperwork.”
I continued reading.
The reason soon became obvious.
The bank financing had required a majority owner with sufficient creditworthiness and assets.
Damian couldn’t qualify.
So Chloe became majority owner.
Not symbolically.
Legally.
Yet Damian controlled operations.
The agreement appointed him managing director, but that authority came with conditions.
Annual financial disclosures.
No related-party transactions without majority-owner approval.
No company loans exceeding $25,000 without written consent.
No transfer of company assets to affiliates.
No compensation changes for officers without board approval.
I looked at Chloe.
“Did he show you financial statements?”
“Never.”
“Did you approve company loans?”
“No.”
“Did you approve his salary?”
“I don’t even know what his salary is.”
I reached page nine.
And stopped.
There was a removal clause.
A managing director could be removed for fraud, gross misconduct, misappropriation, concealment of material financial information, or abuse of company assets.
The majority owner could call an emergency meeting.
The majority owner was Chloe.
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Damian had spent months convincing my daughter she was powerless while apparently operating a business she legally controlled.
But there was more.
An amendment had been stapled behind the agreement.
It was dated four months later.
This one stated that Chloe owed Prescott Hospitality Group $412,000 for “unauthorized withdrawals, losses, training expenses, and reputational damage.”
Her signature appeared at the bottom.
She stared at it.
“I never signed that.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mom, look at it.”
I did.
Her signature was close.
Very close.
But I had signed birthday cards beside my daughter’s handwriting for thirty-two years.
The “C” was wrong.
Chloe made hers in one continuous curve.
This one had a break.
“Do you have copies of your other signed documents?”
“Some.”
“Get them.”
While she searched, I called the only lawyer I trusted.
My former student, interestingly enough.
When I taught eighth grade, Nathan Brooks had been the boy who corrected my spelling twice in one semester and announced at fourteen that he intended to become “a terrifying attorney.”
Twenty years later, he was a partner at a corporate litigation firm in Atlanta.
He answered on the third ring.
“Mrs. Miller?”
“Nathan, I need help.”
His voice changed immediately.
“What happened?”
“I think my daughter’s husband forged her signature and trapped her inside a company she actually owns.”
A pause.
“That’s… specific.”
“I have documents.”
“Photograph every page and send them.”
I did.
Twenty minutes later, he called back.
“Don’t let her sign anything else.”
“She won’t.”
“Don’t confront the husband about the operating agreement.”
“Why?”
“Because if this is real, we need to know what he’s been doing before he knows we’re looking.”
Chloe brought over two boxes.
Nathan continued.
“Does your daughter have access to company email?”
“She might.”
“Bank statements?”
“No.”
“Payroll?”
“No.”
“Accounting software?”
Chloe heard him.
“I created the original QuickBooks account.”
Nathan went silent.
“Can you still log in?”
Chloe opened her laptop.
Her first password failed.
Second failed.
Then she tried an old recovery email connected to the design studio.
A verification code appeared.
She entered it.
The screen loaded.
Chloe gasped.
“What?”
“There are two companies.”
Nathan’s voice sharpened through the speaker.
“What companies?”
“Prescott Hospitality Group and DGP Culinary Consulting.”
“Who owns DGP?”
Chloe clicked.
Her face drained.
“Damian.”
Nathan told us not to touch anything.
Only view.
Only download records we were legally entitled to access.
We started with vendor payments.
DGP Culinary Consulting had received money from the restaurant almost every month.
$18,000.
$22,500.
$31,000.
$27,000.
Consulting fees.
Marketing fees.
Equipment sourcing fees.
Nathan did quick math.
“Total?”
Chloe whispered, “Two hundred and eighty-six thousand.”
My mouth went dry.
There were transfers too.
Company money paying Damian’s personal American Express card.
Car leases.
A luxury apartment listed as “corporate housing.”
“Do you live in a luxury apartment?” I asked.
Chloe shook her head.
They lived in a rented townhouse.
She opened the lease record.
The address was in Buckhead.
Tenant:
Sienna Blake.
“Who is Sienna?”
Chloe stopped breathing.
I knew before she answered.
“His restaurant manager.”
I remembered her.
Beautiful.
Twenty-eight.
Always laughing at Damian’s jokes.
Chloe covered her mouth.
“He told me she lived with her sister.”
Nathan cut in.
“Chloe, listen carefully. Your marriage is separate from the business investigation. Don’t confront either of them tonight.”
Then Chloe clicked payroll.
Her own name appeared.
CHLOE PRESCOTT — CREATIVE DIRECTOR.
Salary: $96,000.
Paid biweekly.
She stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“How much have you received?” Nathan asked.
“Nothing.”
We opened direct deposit records.
Every paycheck had gone somewhere.
Not Chloe’s account.
A different bank.
Different routing number.
Eight months.
Nearly $64,000 after deductions.
My daughter had worked sixty-hour weeks without a paycheck while her salary went into an account she had never seen.
She stood abruptly.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
I caught her.
Nathan’s voice came through the phone.
“We need the bank information.”
Chloe looked again.
The account name wasn’t visible.
Only the last four digits.
She whispered, “I know that number.”
“How?”
“Damian once asked me to transfer money to an emergency account. He gave me the last four digits.”
“Whose account?”
Her eyes filled.
“Sienna’s.”
Silence.
The truth settled over us.
My daughter wasn’t simply being exploited by her husband.
Her wages were apparently funding his mistress.
Then my phone rang.
Damian.
I declined it.
He called again.
Then Chloe’s.
Then mine.
Finally a voicemail arrived.
I played it on speaker.
His voice was cold.
“Chloe, you have until nine tomorrow morning to return to work. If you don’t, I’ll enforce every clause you signed. Margaret, if you think you’re helping her, you’re not. You’re about to cost your daughter her home, her savings, and possibly more.”
Nathan waited until the recording ended.
“Save that.”
“I already did.”
“Good.”
He paused.
“Because tomorrow morning, Chloe isn’t going back to work.”
My daughter looked toward the phone.
“What am I doing?”
Nathan answered.
“You’re coming to my office.”
May you like
“For what?”
“To learn exactly how much of Damian Prescott’s perfect life belongs to money he stole from you.”
Related Stories
