“Put Jake on the fucking phone.”
Shuffling, muffled voices, then Jake's voice came through small and broken. “I'm so sorry, brother.”
“How could you do this to me?”
“I thought I could double it. Triple it. Make your gallery something amazing instead of just getting by.” His words tumbled over each other. “The platform had testimonials, success stories, and I wanted to give you something incredible.”
“By gambling with my entire future.”
“I have a problem.” He was crying now, ugly sounds that made me think of when we were kids and he'd broken Dad's fishing rod. “I thought I had it under control, but seeing all that money, I couldn't stop thinking about what it could become. And whenI started losing, I kept thinking I could win it back before you knew anything was wrong.”
I could picture him in the family's converted garage office, surrounded by booking calendars and equipment inventories, making trades on his phone while Sam was out guiding tourists through Big Bend. Watching numbers that represented my entire future disappear with each failed bet.
“I’m supposed to close in two weeks. I've got seven artists counting on exhibition space.”
“I don't know how to fix this.” His voice broke completely. “I don't know what to do.”
Because there was nothing to do. Some things, once broken, couldn't be pieced back together.
I hung up.
Vincent's office was quiet. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my realtor's number. Past eight, so she probably wouldn't answer, but I needed to do something, even if it was just leaving messages that would ruin her morning.
“Hi, Sasha, it's Dusty Miller. There's been a family emergency, and I need to discuss the Marfa property. The closing date might be...” I paused, searching for words that didn't sound like complete failure. “Please call me as soon as you get this.”
Next, the mortgage broker. Another voicemail, another carefully worded disaster. “This is Dusty Miller regarding the loan for the Highland Avenue property. There's been an unexpected situation with the down payment funds. Please call me.”
Each message was like admitting defeat, but at least it was action. Something besides sitting here watching my future dissolve.
I left Vincent's office and walked back through The Ranch, everything looking different now that I knew I'd be seeing it indefinitely. The main lodge glowed with warm light, couples visible through the windows enjoying late dinners. The pool area was still active. October in Texas was perfect for evening swims in heated pools, and several guests were taking advantage.
This was my world now, for however long it took to save my money back, or figure out another plan.
Years, probably. Many years.
The yoga studio was dark when I reached it, but muscle memory guided me to the lights. Everything exactly as I'd left it four days ago, before the cabin, before everything changed.
The communication tablet on my desk showed a message notification. Cord's suite number. My finger hovered over it before I tapped.
Everything okay? Here if you need to talk.
Such simple words, but they made my chest ache. He was probably in his suite right now, working through those career options, planning a future that seemed impossibly bright compared to the darkness I was staring at.
I pulled out my phone and started drafting messages I’d send tomorrow, responses to the artists who'd submitted work, then stopped. What could I say that wouldn't sound like betrayal? Sorry, my brother's addiction destroyed your opportunity?
Instead, I unrolled one of the yoga mats and sat in the center of the studio, trying to find that calm place I helped others reach every day. But my mind wouldn't settle. It kept circling back to the same thoughts. Seven years of work, gone. Independence, gone. The chance to meet Cord as an equal, gone.
“Thought I might find you here.”
I looked up to see Ramon in the doorway, holding two bottles of beer. He crossed the bamboo floor and handed me one before settling beside me on the mat.
“Saw the lights on,” he said. “You okay?”
“No.” The honesty felt strange but necessary. “Jake took my gallery money. All of it. Gambled it away on cryptocurrency and day trading.”
Ramon's beer stopped halfway to his mouth. “Fuck. All of it?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.” The number felt impossible to say out loud. “Seven years of saving, planning, dreaming. Gone because I was stupid enough to trust family with my future.”
