At 11:00 Tuesday, I paid Vivian a $15,000 retainer.
It came out of savings.
There had been $38,000 that morning.
There was $23,000 when I put my pen down.
While she ran the card, I checked Shopify on my phone.
Payouts paused
Still paused.
"He emailed me at eight," Vivian said.
"Royce wants to see you."
"Noon, downtown, without me."
"Should I go?"
"Go."
"Listen."
"Answer only what he asks."
"And not a word about page three."
"I wasn't going to say one."
"I know."
"I'm saying it anyway."
At noon, I walked into a hotel lobby on Broad Street.
It had a gas fireplace, leather chairs and nobody sitting in them.
Royce sat closest to the fire.
He's 58, silver-haired, and tan in December.
He still had the camel overcoat on.
He'd ordered two coffees.
Mine was already cooling.
"Ms. Varga."
"Mr. Halvorsen."
"I'll be brief."
He slid a single sheet across the table.
It had a signature line and my name typed under it.
"$150,000 for your units and the accounts," he said.
"Tomorrow at five."
"That's the offer?"
"That's the offer."
He drank some coffee.
"At closing you'd have cleared two-point-three."
"Now you won't."
"This is what's left."
I'd done that math at midnight.
$6,200,000.
His note becomes 25% of the company.
My half of the remaining 75% was $2,325,000.
He said it like a weather report.
"What's left," I said.
"I've put $750,000 into your company."
"$350,000 in September."
"$400,000 last Tuesday."
"On the strength of the platform," I said.
He smiled a little.
"Tasha talks."
I said nothing about Tasha.
"Here's what you're half of," he said.
"If there's no sale, my note comes due on demand."
"The company can't pay it."
"You'd own half of a debt."
"Half of a lease."
"Three thousand boxes nobody can buy."
The fire ticked behind him.
"You don't seem worried about the accounts," I said.
"I'm not."
"They're in my name," I said.
"Founders always fold by the second week," he said.
"I've done this eleven times."
"Week one is adrenaline."
"Week two is legal bills."
"This is week two."
He'd timed the meeting to the day the retainer cleared.
At 12:10 he changed tone.
He leaned in, like we were friends now.
"The IRS has your Social on $1.94 million last year."
"Every dollar landed in your personal account."
"I'd hate for somebody to start asking questions."
"My CPA filed nominee returns every year," I said.
"The company paid the tax."
"It's in the books you invested in."
He held still for a second.
His people had read those books before he wired a dollar.
Nobody had read them for him.
"Then your CPA is thorough," he said.
"She is."
He put the IRS away like a card he'd misplayed.
The pen stayed on the sheet between us.
Neither of us touched it.
A bellhop pushed a cart of luggage past us.
Royce waited until the wheels were gone.
"Let me be plain with you," he said.
"Nobody planned for you to be a victim."
"You were just a line item."
"Hearthline was always going to want you out."
I didn't say anything.
I didn't ask who Hearthline was.
A man who knew I'd read Exhibit D wouldn't have said it.
So he didn't think I'd read it.
November 3, he signed page 4.
November 21, Trevor posted that I'd stepped away.
Eighteen days.
Eighteen days of Trevor calling me "partner" while the deal sat in a drawer.
Eighteen days of me making Monday sweeps for them.
"No questions?" Royce said.
"You said you'd be brief."
He set his cup down on the saucer, very gently.
"Your partner thinks you're bluffing," he said.
"He thinks that a lot."
"I don't think you're bluffing."
"I think you're broke by February."
"You're paying lawyers out of a credit union account."
"Your payouts are frozen."
"Paused," I said.
"Same thing at a grocery store."
At 12:25 he stood up.
He buttoned the overcoat, all three buttons, from the bottom up.
He left the sheet and the pen where they were.
"Tomorrow at five," he said.
"After that, it's Thursday."
"I'll be there," I said.
"So will my affidavit."
"Sworn."
"With a law firm behind it."
"You'll have a laptop and a story about Best Buy."
He looked down at me, kindly, like a man looking at a dog that won't fetch.
"Who do you think a judge believes?"