Chapter 3 - The Audit
I spent three hours in that office, the lights off, illuminated only by the glow of the city outside and the small desk lamp. The initial shock and pain of the exclusion had evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard resolve that I hadn't felt since Conrad died. It was a familiar feeling—the adrenaline of a high-stakes negotiation, where one wrong move could cost everything, but one right move could secure a victory.
Only this time, the negotiation was for the soul of my son, and the protection of the legacy I had worked my entire life to build.
I knew things about Curtis and Ariadne’s financial life that Curtis probably assumed I didn't. As a founder and major shareholder, I had always kept a close eye on how the company’s profits—which were substantial—were being used. While I never interfered in Curtis’s salary or bonuses, as I believed in letting him be his own man, I was privy to the lavish lifestyle they had been leading.
They had taken out a second mortgage on the house I had helped them buy six years ago—the "starter home" that was supposed to be a stepping stone, not a millstone. They had leased luxury cars—his and hers SUVs—that were far beyond a mid-level executive’s means. And there were persistent rumors in our social circle of risky investments Ariadne had pushed Curtis into, "get rich quick" schemes that sounded desperate rather than savvy.
At the time, I dismissed these concerns as none of my business, assuming Curtis had it under control and that Ariadne was simply adjusting to their new wealth. Now, looking at the situation through the lens of the blatant exclusion at the Thanksgiving table, those "concerns" looked less like poor judgment and more like a house of cards waiting to fall.
I picked up the secure landline on my desk and called Arthur Penhaligon, the senior partner at the accounting firm that handled the Lancaster family trust and the corporate audits for LRL. It was Thanksgiving evening, but I knew Arthur. He valued his relationship with the Lancaster family far more than his holiday dinner. He answered on the first ring.
"Hazel," Arthur said, his voice calm and professional. "Happy Thanksgiving to you. I hope you aren't calling about a corporate emergency."
"A personal one, Arthur," I said, cutting right to the chase. "I need a quiet, deep-dive forensic audit on my son, Curtis Lancaster, and his wife, Ariadne. I want to know where every dime of their combined income is going, and I want a comprehensive assessment of their liabilities—mortgages, loans, credit card debt, and any other encumbrances they might be trying to hide."
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by a thoughtful hum. "That is a significant request, Hazel. Especially on a holiday weekend. What prompted this?"
"Let’s just say I have reason to believe the 'Lancaster Wealth' my daughter-in-law is so fond of displaying is built on a very unstable foundation, and I intend to see exactly what is supporting it. I need you to mobilize your discreet team. I want preliminary findings by Monday morning."
"Consider it done," Arthur said, sensing the gravity in my tone. "I will handle this personally and through our secure channels. You will have a draft report on your private server by Tuesday at the latest."
I hung up the phone, feeling a surge of dark satisfaction. If Ariadne was so concerned about "balance" and "appearances" that she would humiliate me in front of her mother and friends, I was about to expose just how unbalanced and fraudulent their entire suburban facade really was.
My son was in over his head, and his wife was steering the ship directly into an iceberg, likely hoping to use my life raft when the crash came. My hope was that by exposing the financial ruin they were facing, I could force Curtis to see the reality of the woman he had married—a woman whose ambition far outpaced her morals, and who valued appearances over the well-being of her husband and mother-in-law.
I sat back in my chair, looking out the window at the city skyline. The sun had set, and the lights of Pittsburgh were twinkling in the darkness. I had lost my Thanksgiving dinner, but I was preparing a much larger, and far more bitter, feast for later.
My phone buzzed again on the desk. This time, it wasn't Curtis. It was a group text from Ariadne, sent to the entire family, including Vernon Prescott and his wife.
*Ariadne: Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! We had such a glorious time today. @Norma, thank you for the incredible wine, it was the perfect touch. So blessed to have our real family together today. So much to be thankful for. ❤️*
May you like
The message was a direct, calculated knife twist. "Real family." The implication was unmistakable: I was not family. I was an outsider, a temporary inconvenience that had been successfully managed and disposed of.
I read the text, felt a momentary sting of sharp pain, and then deleted it. I didn't need to respond with petty words. Actions, as Conrad always said, spoke infinitely louder than words. And my next actions were going to be deafening.
