Dear Mr. Matthew Vega,
Vega Properties LLC hereby notifies you that the lease agreement expiring on January 31, 2024, will not be renewed. You have until the indicated date to vacate the property.
“What the hell?” he whispered.
He dialed the number at the bottom. A professional female voice answered. “Vega Properties Administration.”
“This is Matthew Vega. I just got an eviction notice. This has to be a mistake. I pay my rent on time!”
“One moment, sir… There is no mistake. The owner has decided not to renew. It is their legal right.”
“Who is the owner? I need to talk to them.”
“That information is confidential. If you wish to re-apply when the unit is listed, the current market price is $3,800 a month.”
Matthew choked on his coffee. “$3,800? But I pay $1,400!”
“You pay a preferential employee rate, sir. That will no longer apply.”
The line went dead. Matthew sat staring at the screen. $3,800 was mathematically impossible on his salary.
“Matthew?” Audrey stood in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in silk. “Why are you yelling?”
“We’re being evicted,” he said, his voice hollow.
“What? No. This is your apartment!”
“It’s rented. It always has been.”
Audrey’s face shifted from confusion to fury. “This is your mother. She did this.”
“I don’t know,” Matthew ran his hands through his hair. “But I’m going to find out. I’m going to the Vega Properties office right now.”
At 12:30 P.M., Matthew parked the Cadillac in a garage that cost $45 an hour and marched into the modernist building on Park Avenue. He demanded to see the director.
The receptionist looked him up and down. “One moment.”
While he waited, Matthew paced the lobby. The walls were lined with black-and-white photos of buildings. He stopped in front of one. It showed a construction site from the late 90s. In the center was a man in a hard hat, smiling.
His father. Anthony Vega.
The plaque underneath read: Anthony Vega, Co-Founder, 1989-2017.
“Co-founder?” Matthew whispered. His father was a construction worker. Or so he had been told.
“Mr. Vega?”
A man in a sharp suit approached. “I am James Torres, Executive Director. Why don’t we go to my office?”
Inside, James was polite but immovable. The lease was terminated. The decision was final.
“My mother,” Matthew said, desperate. “Did she talk to the owner? Is she sabotaging me?”
James looked at him with a strange expression. “Your mother has nothing to do with this business decision. However, I suggest you start looking for a new place immediately.”
As Matthew left, defeated, his eyes caught another photo on the wall near the elevator. It was blurry, taken at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. In the background, behind James Torres, stood a woman in a simple dress, holding a clipboard, directing two men in suits.
The posture. The bun. The jawline.
It was his mother.
Meanwhile, at Columbus Circle, Audrey was standing at the register at Nordstrom, a silk dress in her hand. She swiped the silver credit card.
Declined.
“Try it again,” she snapped at the cashier.
Declined.
She called the bank, furious. “My card isn’t working!”
“One moment… Ah, yes. That is an additional card on the account of Katherine Vega. It was cancelled yesterday by the primary holder.”
“Cancelled?” Audrey screeched.
“Yes, ma’am. Immediately.”
She hung up, her hands shaking with rage. She called Matthew. “Your mother cancelled the card! The one you said was yours!”
“Audrey, stop,” Matthew said, his voice strange. “I’m looking at a photo. A photo of my father.”
“I don’t care about your father! I care that I look like a pauper in Nordstrom!”
“Audrey… I think my mother owns Vega Properties.”
“What?”
“I think she owns everything.”
