If you sign the emergency conservatorship papers now, we won't have to explain the kitchen injuries to Child Protective Services, my senior business partner, Vivian Zhao, whispered while I lay bl...
Two days later, discharged with strict orders for bed rest, I found myself in Aunt Mai’s cozy guest room above her Pilsen bakery. The scent of warm bread and coffee usually brought comfort, but now it felt distant. Lily was stable, a tiny miracle sleeping beside me, but the fight was far from over.
I pulled out my laptop, the screen reflecting my drawn face. Studio expenses were due: specialized Vietnamese silk for the upcoming exhibit, mahogany planks for custom furniture. I clicked through to our corporate bank portal for Dao & Zhao Imports.
“Access Denied.” The message flashed.
I tried again. Same result. My heart pounded. I scrolled down, looking for any error message, any explanation.
A new notification appeared, almost buried: “Account Frozen. Refer to Corporate Resolution ID #749-B.”
I called Chase Bank immediately, navigating the automated system with growing frustration. Finally, a representative.
“Regarding Corporate Resolution 749-B,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “can you explain why our operating accounts are frozen?”
The woman on the other end was curt. “Ms. Zhao, the resolution states that due to your recent medical emergency and anticipated extended recovery, the managing partners have deemed you medically incapacitated to oversee the daily operations.”
“Medically incapacitated?” I repeated, a cold dread washing over me. “Who filed this?”
“The resolution was filed by Ms. Vivian Zhao, senior partner, and Mr. Ethan Zhao, partner,” she recited, as if reading from a script. “It gives them sole authority over all corporate assets, including the $420,000 raw material shipment arriving at the Port of Chicago this week.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “$420,000?”
That shipment, destined for us, now my personal liability if I couldn’t access the funds. Vivian wasn’t just seizing control; she was trying to bankrupt me personally. I hung up, the phone a dead weight in my hand. My studio, my craft, my life’s work – it was all being systematically stripped away.
Aunt Mai walked in, a plate of fresh bánh mì in her hand. Her eyes took in my face.
“What is it, Linh?” she asked softly.
“They’ve frozen everything, Auntie,” I managed, my voice breaking. “Everything.”
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