You don't belong in a high-end historical building like this, my landlord’s fiancée, Vanessa Crawford, sneered as she dumped a glass of $350 Moët & Chandon champagne directly over my head.
The Fulton County Records Office hummed with a low, constant drone of fluorescent lights and shuffling papers. I sat at a communal desk, the heavy folder for Gaines Historic Properties open before me. My hands felt clumsy turning the brittle pages.
I scanned the labyrinthine documents detailing Brandon’s family holdings. A knot tightened in my stomach with each paragraph.
Then I saw it. Tucked within the property deeds and tax assessments was a private mortgage note. It wasn’t from a conventional bank.
Vanessa Crawford’s family investment firm, “Crawford Holdings LLC,” was listed as the lender. The sum: a staggering $1.2 million.
It was due in full in thirty days. The fine print stipulated that if Brandon failed to convert the brownstone apartments into luxury condos, Crawford Holdings could seize the property.
This wasn’t just about Brandon’s malice. This was about survival. He was trapped, desperate to save his family’s legacy. My romance with him was collateral damage.
The air felt thin as I gathered my things. Brandon wasn’t just gaslighting me; he was fighting for his entire world, using me as a pawn.
I made my way back to the brownstone, the autumn air sharp against my face. The familiar brick façade loomed, but it felt different now, menacing.
I slipped my keycard into the reader beside the main entrance. Nothing.
I tried again. The small green light refused to illuminate.
A small, cold dread began to creep up my spine. Had I made a mistake? Had I forgotten something?
I pressed the intercom button for my apartment. A moment later, Brandon’s voice, calm and even, answered.
“Maya? What’s going on?” he asked.
“My keycard isn’t working,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Did something happen to the system?”
There was a beat of silence. “Oh, that,” he said, as if it were a trivial oversight. “The main entrance code was updated about three weeks ago. I sent out an email.”
My breath hitched. “Three weeks ago? Brandon, no, you didn’t. I check my email constantly.”
“You must have forgotten, Maya,” he insisted, his voice gentle, almost pitying. “With everything going on, stress can do funny things to your memory.”
He let me in, the heavy door swinging open with a soft sigh. He didn’t look at me, only past me, into the dimly lit foyer.
“It happens,” he added, his voice trailing off as he turned and walked away. “Just write it down next time.”
My hand still gripped the cold, useless keycard. My mind reeled. Three weeks? No email. No notification. The gaslighting was no longer a vague threat; it was a concrete, chilling reality.
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