The Signature
416 Words
Table 7. 8:00PM sharp.
They were already there.
My father. My mother. No lawyers. No Victor Hale. Just two people and a folder between them.
I didn’t sit.
“Where’s the pen?” I asked.
My father slid it across the table. The same Montblanc from Friday.
“You came,” my mother whispered. Her eyes were red. She hadn’t slept.
“I said I would,” I said. “Hour 48 ends now.”
I took the chair. The steakhouse went quiet around us. People recognized me. _That’s Lexa DeMarco._ The girl who bought DeMarco Holdings.
I opened the folder. Two copies. Two pens.
“Sign,” I said.
My father’s hand hovered. “Lexa, please. Before we do this—”
“Eighteen years ago you signed me away with one pen stroke,” I said. “You don’t get a speech now.”
His jaw clenched. He signed. Page one. Page two.
My mother didn’t.
“Lexa,” she said. “We were young. We were drowning. The company—”
“Was more important than me,” I finished. “I know. Sign it.”
She looked at the paper. Then at me. Tears hit the table, not the ink.
“I can’t,” she said. “If I sign, I lose you forever.”
“You lost me at Bench Four,” I said.
Silence.
My father grabbed her hand. “Sign it, Elena. Or we lose everything.”
She picked up the pen. Her hand shook so bad the nib rattled.
8:02PM.
She signed.
I took both copies. I didn’t look at them. I slid one back. “Your copy. Two million wires tonight. Be out of the penthouse by noon.”
My mother stared at me like I was a stranger. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I said. I stood.
“Lexa, wait—” My father stood too.
I stopped. But I didn’t turn.
“Eighteen years,” I said. “You owe me eighteen years. Two million doesn’t cover interest.”
I walked out.
Outside, Mara was waiting. “It’s done?”
I nodded. Handed her the folder. “File it. Now.”
My phone buzzed. Bank alert: _Wire sent: $2,000,000 to Elena & Richard DeMarco._
Done.
The car door closed. I looked at the steakhouse one last time through the window.
They were still sitting at Table 7. Alone.
I didn’t feel victory.
I felt empty.
And that scared me more than anything.
- Writer
