“We can do better. I can buy the note.”
She made one call.
Three minutes later she hung up.
“Done. Sixty cents on the dollar. Once the wire clears, you own James’s debt.”
We spent the next hour drafting documents: a secured guarantee agreement, James as debtor, my parents as guarantors, their home and wages as collateral.
Then Morgan pointed to a clause in the middle.
“This,” she said, “is where they bury themselves.”
The clause formally acknowledged that my parents had once redirected money intended for me toward James and waived any claim of fairness when repayment was enforced.
“In plain English,” I said, “they admit they took my inheritance and used it for him.”
“Exactly. But we still need them saying it on camera.”
I smiled thinly.
“My father loves an audience.”
By the time I left, Barry had been paid, the note had been legally assigned to my company, and everything was ready.
When I returned to the yacht, dusk had settled.
My family was in exactly the same positions as before, as though they had frozen in place while waiting for me to surrender.
James had opened one of my wine bottles. My mother was flipping through a magazine. My father looked up like a man expecting results.
“Is it done?” he asked.
