Chapter 3 - The King of Ashes
Julian was ecstatic. He spent the first forty-eight hours acting like the king of the valley. According to Elena, my best friend who lived on the neighboring farm, Julian had already ordered a massive catered party, inviting his wealthy frat brothers and former Wall Street buddies down to "his" new country estate.
He took photos in the lavender fields holding a glass of champagne, captioning it: Self-made CEO. Expanding the portfolio.
But the illusion shattered on Thursday morning.
Julian had invited the loan sharks—two terrifying men from Seattle in tailored suits—to the farm to prove he had the assets to cover his $920,000 debt plus the insane interest. He walked them through the fields, bragging about the projected revenue, completely unaware of how farming actually worked.
"The harvest starts next week," Julian promised them, slicking back his hair. "I'll have a million in liquid cash for you by the end of the month."
"That's a nice story," the lead collector, a man named Russo, said in a gravelly voice. "But my boss doesn't want lavender. He wants the deed to the land as collateral until the cash is in his hand."
"No problem," Julian said arrogantly. He marched into the farmhouse, grabbed the quitclaim deed I had signed, and brought it out.
Russo took the deed, pulled out his phone, and made a call to his associate at the county clerk’s office to verify the transfer.
Julian stood there, grinning, waiting for his nightmare to end.
Ten minutes later, Russo hung up the phone. His expression was dead. He looked at Julian, and the air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Do you think this is a game, Julian?" Russo asked softly.
"What? No, the land is worth at least five million!" Julian stammered.
"The land was worth that," Russo corrected, taking a step forward. "My guy at the clerk's office just ran the parcel number. Clara Vance doesn't own this property. She sold it to a French holding company two months ago. The deed you're holding is a worthless piece of paper. It's a fraudulent transfer. You don't own a single blade of grass on this farm."
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Julian’s face went chalk white. "No... no, that's impossible. She signed it! My parents' lawyers drafted it!"
Russo grabbed Julian by the lapels of his expensive blazer and slammed him against the side of the farmhouse. "You have exactly twenty-four hours to get us our money, Julian. Or we stop asking nicely."
