Silence in this hall costs more than the marble under our shoes, the estate attorney said, opening the black leather portfolio before sixty silent mourners.
I drove to my mother Nora’s house in Lincoln Park, the city lights blurring through the fresh tears in my eyes. I desperately needed an ally, someone who would see Julian Ross for the greedy corporate shark he was. I pictured Nora comforting me, perhaps even suggesting a counter-strategy.
But when I pushed open the heavy oak door to our family home, the scent of fresh brewed oolong tea, not comfort, greeted me.
Julian Ross was there.
He sat on the antique velvet sofa in our living room, a dainty teacup held lightly in his hand. Financial ledgers were spread across the polished mahogany coffee table between him and Nora.
Nora sat beside him, her shoulders tense, her eyes fixed on the numbers. She looked up, her expression a mix of concern and something I couldn’t quite place.
Julian offered a small, polite smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes.
“Maya,” he said, his voice smooth and even. “We were just discussing your grandfather’s… legacy.”
My stomach tightened. I knew immediately I had walked into a trap.
Nora shifted, pulling a stray thread from her cardigan. “Julian was just explaining, darling. Your digging, challenging the transfer—it’s creating a lot of unwanted attention.”
“Unwanted attention from the IRS, specifically,” Julian interjected, his gaze unwavering. “An audit, Maya. On the family’s trust accounts.”
My eyes flicked to the ledgers, then back to Nora. An audit?
“Julian says if we provoke them, they could liquidate everything,” Nora said, her voice tight with panic. “Our remaining $800,000 in liquidity, Maya. Everything Jin-Woo worked fifty years to build.”
She stood up, walking toward me with a pleading look. “Please, darling, just drop it. Don’t risk everything for… for a principle.”
“A principle?” I felt a surge of indignation. “The Pilsen Cultural Center was sacred to Grandfather! He always said it was the heart of the community.”
Nora’s face hardened. She took a step back, her hand fisted at her side.
“Pride does not pay property taxes in Chicago, Maya,” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. “Your grandfather understood that better than anyone.”
She turned away, dismissing me. Julian simply watched, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
The air in the room suddenly felt thick, suffocating. I stood there, utterly alone. My own mother, my last hope for an ally, had been swayed. I turned, without another word, and walked out into the cool night, the click of the oak door behind me sounding like the final lock on a cage. If I was going to find justice for my grandfather, I would have to do it myself.
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