Chapter 3
An hour later we’ve been summoned to a nondescript warehouse in LA’s Fashion District.
It’s been unused for a while now, and some of the local vendors have been known to do shady business down here.
How fitting that this is where Dad has chosen to meet with our lawyer.
I didn’t think he could be capable of anything this sleazy, but his secrecy about the company’s day-to-day business, even with his own family, does make me raise a brow.
“Please. Sit.” Mr. Ahn, my dad’s personal lawyer since forever, pulls up some old crates and gestures for us to sit.
My dad declines, opting to stand with his hands folded across his chest in what I’m sure he thinks is a power move.
My mom unties the silk scarf around her neck and sits on the scarf after laying it on a crate.
I’m too frazzled to sit, so instead I pace aimlessly.
Of course Gavin makes a show of sitting down, eyeing me specifically as he lowers himself to the crate, pretending not to take notice of the splinters burrowing their way through his Ermenegildo Zegna slacks.
Like he’s some kind of goddamn hero for not having standards.
I would call him out on it, except now is not the time for snobbery, especially if any part of the article implicating It’s Ok! is true.
Once we’re settled, Mr. Ahn clears his throat. “Now, it looks bad, but—”
Oh, thank God, there’s a but.
“—it’s actually much worse than it seems,” he unfortunately continues.
Apparently, not only did the company fail to pay the rent for multiple retail locations for the past few months, but production had to come to a complete halt due to the nature of the investigation, causing the loss of ungodly amounts of money.
This can’t be happening. I keep waiting for a camera crew to appear from a hidden room, because this has to be a joke, right?
In the silence that follows Mr. Ahn’s explanation, however, it becomes clear that no one is filming us and this isn’t a joke.
I make the mistake of glancing down at the phone in my hand.
The notifications come in rapid-fire succession. I reflexively click on them.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I mutter endlessly as I scroll through my social media feeds.
I’ve been dropped from all the events I had booked for the summer.
“I’m…” I gasp. “Canceled?” The tears come out at once.
There go my summer plans to party my way to independence.
Just like that. I’ve already called Kiki a billion times but got sent straight to voicemail, which is bad enough.
But to find out via social media what she should have told me herself is a swift punch to the gut.
After staring at me open-mouthed for a long and drawn-out moment, Mom, Dad, and Gavin turn their attention back to Mr. Ahn.
“How could we be so severely in debt? How did it happen so quickly?” Mom asks Mr. Ahn. “Is it because of that no-good George? Please tell me we didn’t invest in his scheme.”
Mr. Ahn clears his throat. “It’s unclear if George Bronstein’s investment fraud charges are linked to you.
What we do know is that you signed a significant number of lease agreements at a low, post-pandemic rate.
But each clause indicated the subsequent, not to mention substantial, increase in rent per year, and the company just hasn’t been able to keep up with the costs to uphold your end of the lease agreements. ”
Mom spins around to face Dad. “I warned you about this.” She tuts. “I told you that we needed to close the international storefronts, focus on the US market only, and shift our goals to e-commerce.”
Dad looks as utterly taken aback by Mom’s directness as Gavin and I are. As the epitome of a trophy wife, Mom is often seen—in head-to-toe couture—but not heard. Gavin and I glance at each other, then back at Mom.
“What?” she says in response to our blank expressions.
“I didn’t know you knew so much about the business,” I say.
Mom sighs loudly, as if to say duh. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been at the company since the beginning. Where did you think I was all those years when you were at school?”
“Charity events and fundraisers?” Gavin says, guessing at the same time that I say, “Ladies’ lunches and pickleball?”
Disappointment washes over her face, but I can’t tell if it’s at us or herself. It’s a stark contrast to the unflappable smile she normally sports. Now the smile is gone and, I take it, so is the fakeness.
“What can we do?” Mom asks, trudging ahead.
Mr. Ahn blinks a couple times before he says, “Well, nothing.”
“What?” Gavin asks what we’re all thinking. Surely we’ve heard him wrong.
“At this point we have to let the investigation run its course. With the IRS it could take anywhere between several weeks and months, depending on how far back the investigation needs to go.”
“Months?” I flail. “Did you see what it’s like out there? I can’t live like this for another day!”
“For once, Elena is right,” Gavin concedes. “The camera crews are camped outside of our gate. I rode in Sonya’s trunk to get here. I can’t live like this for the next day, let alone months.”
“Then maybe it’s a good thing the house is being repossessed,” Mr. Ahn says, somehow cavalierly.
“Excuse me?” Mom shoots up. “Our home?”
This gets Dad to finally say something. “Surely they won’t do that. Couldn’t we appeal for some type of leniency—”
“This is lenient. They’re giving you a few days to get your affairs in order,” Mr. Ahn says matter-of-factly, as if he’s explaining a math equation or reciting the definition of a vocab word.
Instead of resenting him for his nonchalance, I find myself envying him.
I’d give anything to trade places with Mr. Ahn, who has the luxury of being on the other end of this conversation.
“The only money they aren’t freezing right now is the separate account Mrs. Ok made in Elena’s name,” Mr. Ahn says.
The three of us crane our necks to look at Mom, surprised.
“She can’t have her own bank account. She’s only seventeen,” Gavin blurts. He’s not wrong. I distinctly remember opening the joint account with Mom.
“Gloria?” Even Dad must not know about my account since he’s asking her for an explanation.
“What?” Mom holds out her hands in annoyance.
“Because of who we are—” She winces. “Or were, I should say. The bank allowed Elena to have an independent bank account at sixteen. So I took myself off as co-owner when she started making money from her catchphrase and paid appearances.” She sighs.
“I only thought it was fair, since she earned it.”
My jaw hangs open. Had I known I had full access to my money all along, I would have moved out sooner.
“Yes, the IRS felt that this money earned was unrelated to the corporate sales of It’s Ok!, and as such, it falls outside of the scope of their investigation,” Mr. Ahn goes on to explain. “More importantly, it should be enough to keep you afloat for now.”
“Um, Gavin? Did you hear that? My party money saves the day.” I tap him on the shoulder, and he glares up at me. “You’re welcome,” I say with an obnoxiously large smile.
“So we can stay at our house?” Dad asks.
Mr. Ahn clears his throat. “The money is not enough to keep your mortgage, and with no assets, you have no collateral. I’m afraid your house is no longer…
your house.” A deep and disturbing silence descends on us as we’re stripped of our last shred of dignity.
“But the good news is,” Mr. Ahn says with forced enthusiasm, “Elena’s money is enough to tide you over until everything gets sorted out. ”
“Okay, I guess that is something.” Dad rubs his forehead, trying to convince himself this is good news when we all know it’s not. “We have the condo in Westwood. I suppose we could stay there.”
“Excuse me?” Gavin’s head jerks back. “I share the condo with Sonya. Have you forgotten? Don’t you know how that would make us look if we just kicked her out of there when it suited us?”
“I’m with Gavin on this,” I say, surprising him. “Have you seen his place? It’s tiiiiiny. There are only two bathrooms, and it’s got a kitchenette. Like a house for squirrels or something.”
“Wow” is all Gavin can say.
“I’m sorry, but the Westwood condo isn’t in your budget either,” Mr. Ahn interrupts.
Our jaws collectively drop.
“My condo isn’t anywhere near the dwelling space for woodland creatures that Elena overexaggerated, but it’s far from luxurious.
It’s modest at best. With a doorman. And a gym.
And a spa— Okay, it’s nice.” Gavin recoils, reconsidering his aforementioned argument.
“But it’s a microscopic fraction of the size, not to mention the cost, of our Calabasas mansion. Couldn’t we afford at least that?”
Mr. Ahn, however, remains unmoved.
“So, like, going back to your earlier statement. How is this good news?” I ask. “I thought lawyers were supposed to tell the truth.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Mr. Ahn, just tell us. What are our options?” Mom asks, exasperated.
Mr. Ahn begins shuffling through his papers. “There is one piece of property the IRS is allowing you to retain.” He hands my dad a piece of paper.
Gavin reads it from behind Dad. “Bl-aire?” he says slowly.
“Bel Air?” I squawk loudly, sighing in relief. “Oh, thank God. Finally some good news.” I glance over at Mr. Ahn as I say this.
“No, not Bel Air. Blaire,” Mr. Ahn, the beacon of joy that he is, clarifies.
“Blaire?” I say the unfamiliar word as if it’s toxic. “Where’s that?”
“It was a piece of property we purchased ten years ago,” Dad says, suddenly remembering.
“Ten years ago? I was nine. Elena was seven,” Gavin says. “How come you never told us?”
“We bought it when It’s Ok! began expanding and our prospects were looking good,” Mom explains in a kind of nostalgic but sad way.
“It was supposed to be our retirement plan,” Dad says. “I had completely forgotten about it.”