My Family Gave A Con Artist Our Home — So I Became The Bank
Part 2
I walked out the front doors of the sprawling estate as the cool night air hit my face.
I handed my ticket to the valet.
I tipped him generously and got into my car.
I did not drive home feeling defeated.
I drove home knowing exactly what I had to do next.
By the time the sun came up, Craig was going to learn why you never mess with a woman who follows the money for a living.
The morning sun barely filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan penthouse.
The shrill ringing of my phone shattered the quiet.
It was exactly seven in the morning.
I was standing in my kitchen pouring my first cup of black coffee.
I glanced at the caller ID flashing on the marble island.
It was Heather.
I let it ring.
The ringing stopped, then immediately started again.
She called five times in the span of three minutes.
On the sixth ring, I finally picked it up.
“Megan, you have to help me,” Heather screamed into the receiver.
Her voice sounded unrecognizable.
The smug, triumphant tone she had used just hours ago was completely stripped away.
She was hyperventilating.
I took a slow sip of my coffee.
“What do you want, Heather?”
“He is gone,” she sobbed.
The words tumbled out of her mouth in a hysterical rush.
“I woke up at four in the morning and Craig was not in the suite.”
“All his bags are gone.”
“All the wedding envelopes from the reception are gone.”
“There was over a hundred thousand dollars in that lockbox, and he took it all.”
I felt no shock.
I felt no pity.
I only felt the cold, hard validation of being exactly right.
“Did you try calling him?”
I asked.
My voice remained flat and devoid of emotion.
“His phone goes straight to voicemail,” she shrieked.
Her panic quickly morphed into anger.
“His location is turned off.”
“I called his parents and they will not pick up.”
“The hotel manager just came up with security.”
“Craig’s black card declined for the additional reception charges.”
“They are demanding twenty thousand dollars right now for the extra champagne and the damages to the suite.”
“They said if I do not pay it, they are calling the police.”
“Wire me the money right now, Megan.”
She was not asking for my help.
She was demanding it.
After twenty-two years of treating me like an outcast, she still believed she was entitled to my money.
“I am not giving you a single dime,” I said softly.
“Are you out of your mind?” she shrieked.
“If you do not wire me this money, my life is ruined.”
“Your life is already ruined, Heather,” I said calmly.
“You let our parents hand over their only valuable asset to a man who is probably halfway out of the country.”
There was a sudden gasp on the other end.
“What do you mean asset?” she stammered.
I smiled.
“The deed to the Brooklyn house, Heather.”
“The one Mom and Dad signed over to him.”
She went dead silent.
I knew in that exact moment that she had no idea.
Our parents had kept it a secret from her.
“No,” Heather whispered.
“Mom and Dad would never do that.”
“They did,” I confirmed.
“So you can cry about your hotel bill all you want, but your fake billionaire husband just made our parents homeless.”
“Megan, please,” she begged.
This time it was pure, unadulterated fear.
“You have to help us.”
“You have the money to fix this.”
I ended the call and blocked her number.
My morning was just getting started.
Have you ever had to walk away from family members who only wanted to use you for what you could provide?
