Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Scissors
The forged authorization was worse than the loan.
It claimed I had given Julian authority to negotiate the sale of my company.
My entire company.
Three salons.
Twenty-six years of work.
Everything my father had encouraged me to build.
I stared at the document on Rebecca's computer screen.
"Who notarized this?"
Rebecca enlarged the bottom of the page.
A name appeared beneath an official stamp.
Patricia Wells.
"I don't know her," I said.
"Neither do I," Rebecca answered. "But we're going to verify this."
The signature looked almost perfect.
Almost.
Whoever copied it had missed the unusual curve I always made beneath the final letter of my surname.
My mother had taught me that flourish when I was little.
It was one of the few things I still remembered clearly about her handwriting.
Seeing the imitation made me unexpectedly furious.
Julian hadn't only stolen my name.
He had stolen something connected to my mother.
Rebecca contacted the bank's fraud department.
She also notified the lender that my company disputed every purported guarantee and authorization.
No one was permitted to act on those documents without independent verification.
Then she arranged for me to meet a forensic document examiner.
I wanted to ask how much longer this nightmare could continue.
Instead, I signed the paperwork.
Because this time, my signature was real.
By late afternoon, Maya and I returned to the flagship salon.
I had built Crown & Grace in a renovated brick building near downtown Austin.
There were six styling stations, a private treatment room, and a small office overlooking the main floor.
Normally, walking inside made me feel peaceful.
That day, I felt exposed.
My employees stopped talking when they saw me.
Several looked at my scarf.
I knew what they were wondering.
I could have hidden.
Instead, I removed it.
The room went silent.
My uneven hair barely reached my jaw on one side.
On the other, jagged strands hung against my neck.
One of my stylists, Jasmine, covered her mouth.
"Elena..."
I took a breath.
"My husband did this."
Nobody moved.
"I wanted you to hear it from me because I refuse to be ashamed."
Jasmine began crying.
Another employee stepped forward.
"Do you want me to call somebody?"
"I've already reported it."
Maya placed a hand on my shoulder.
"We're dealing with a serious personal and business matter," she told them. "But your jobs are secure. We have legal and financial professionals working with us."
I looked at my team.
"I won't let this destroy what we've built."
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Jasmine approached me.
"May I fix it?"
Her voice trembled.
I smiled through my tears.
"Please."
She guided me into her chair.
As she worked, I watched my employees through the mirror.
These women had celebrated birthdays together.
Covered shifts for sick coworkers.
Supported one another through divorces, pregnancies, and family losses.
They were more than employees.
They were the family I had chosen.
Jasmine carefully shaped my hair into a short, elegant bob.
When she finished, she turned the chair toward the mirror.
I barely recognized myself.
But this time, I liked what I saw.
"You look powerful," she whispered.
I touched the ends.
Then I laughed softly.
"I feel different."
"You should."
I hugged her.
For the first time since Julian attacked me, I cried without feeling ashamed.
That evening, I checked into a small furnished apartment arranged through Rebecca's office.
I was unpacking when my phone rang.
Julian.
I almost ignored it.
Then I remembered Rebecca's advice about preserving communications.
I let it go to voicemail.
His message arrived immediately.
"Elena, where are you? Vanessa says you're trying to interfere with some business paperwork. Stop embarrassing me."
I played it twice.
Then forwarded it to Rebecca.
Five minutes later, another message appeared.
"You don't understand what's happening. Stay out of it."
I stared at those words.
He still believed I knew nothing.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I called my father.
He was seventy-four now, retired, and living in a modest house outside San Antonio.
"Dad?"
"Elena? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
My voice cracked.
"Can I come see you tomorrow?"
"Of course."
I hesitated.
"Dad, Julian hurt me."
The silence on the other end was unbearable.
Then his voice changed.
"Where are you?"
"I'm safe."
"Tell me where."
I gave him the address.
"Stay there," he said. "I'm coming."
"Dad, it's late."
"I don't care."
He arrived before ten.
When I opened the door, he took one look at my hair.
His face crumpled.
"Oh, baby."
I stepped into his arms.
And suddenly, I was eleven years old again, crying because I missed my mother.
He held me without asking questions.
When I finally explained what Julian had done, his hands shook.
"I should have seen what kind of man he was."
"No, Dad."
"I thought he would take care of you."
I pulled away.
"You taught me to take care of myself."
His eyes filled.
"Then why did you stay so long?"
That question hurt more than I expected.
"Because I kept remembering who I thought he was."
My father nodded slowly.
"And now?"
I wiped my cheeks.
"Now I know."
He stayed the night on the sofa.
The next morning, Rebecca called with news.
The supposed notary had denied witnessing my signature.
Even more disturbing, someone appeared to have used her professional credentials without authorization.
Rebecca had referred the matter for further investigation.
Then she mentioned another discovery.
"Elena, do you remember a marketing consultant named Vanessa Carter contacting your salon about a brand partnership last year?"
I froze.
"What?"
"She sent a proposal to Maya."
I searched my memory.
Maya had rejected several aggressive marketing offers the previous summer.
One had promised rapid franchise expansion.
I remembered thinking the terms sounded suspicious.
"That was Vanessa?"
"Yes."
My pulse quickened.
"When did she start working with Julian?"
"According to the employment records we've reviewed, several months later."
I sat down.
Vanessa hadn't necessarily met Julian by accident.
She had approached my business first.
Rebecca continued.
"We're looking into whether Sterling Growth Partners tried to access your company before the affair began."
I thought about Vanessa sitting on my sofa.
Mocking my furniture.
Drinking my wine.
Laughing while Julian destroyed my hair.
Had any of it been spontaneous?
Or had they been trying to break me before stealing everything?
That afternoon, Maya found an old email in our archives.
It was from Vanessa.
The subject concerned a proposed acquisition strategy.
Attached was a pitch deck.
Its final page contained a disturbing sentence.
"Founder resistance can be overcome through personal leverage."
I stared at the words.
Maya looked at me.
"Elena, what does that mean?"
My hands went cold.
"I think Vanessa knew exactly what she was doing."
Then Rebecca called again.
Her voice was urgent.
"Elena, don't go anywhere near Julian tonight."
"Why?"
"We've identified a potential buyer for your company."
I swallowed.
"Who?"
"A private investment group connected to Vanessa's family."
I closed my eyes.
And Rebecca delivered the worst part.
"They've scheduled a closing meeting for Friday."
May you like
Friday.
The fifth day.
