I was putting on my coat to go to my daughter’s house for Sunday dinner, just like every week. Right as I opened the door, my phone buzzed. A message from my lawyer: “Call me immediately! Do NOT go there!” My heart tightened. I called him back right away. His voice was low, more serious than I had ever heard it: “I just received documents… about your daughter’s plan. You must not set foot in her house tonight.” I froze. What he showed me right after that — changed my entire life.
Chicago winters are unforgiving. The wind from Lake Michigan whistles through the windows of our Gold Coast penthouse, bringing with it a biting cold.
I, Arthur Vance, 68, stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my cashmere scarf. It’s Sunday. As has been my custom for the past five years since my wife died, I’m driving to the suburbs of Evanston to have dinner with my only daughter, Sarah, and her husband, Greg.
Sarah is the light of my life. She’s a psychiatrist, gentle, intelligent, and always concerned about my father’s well-being. Greg is a real estate investor, a bit ambitious but respectful. Sunday dinners are my only spiritual anchor in my lonely life as a retired CEO with a multi-million dollar fortune.
I pick up a bottle of Château Margaux 1996 from the shelf—Sarah’s favorite. I smiled, thinking of the girl’s scream when she saw the label.
I reached for the door.
Ding!
The phone in my jacket pocket vibrated. A text message.
I frowned. Who would be texting at this hour?
From: Michael Sterling – Personal Attorney.
Message: “Call me now! DON’T go there!”
My heart sank. Michael never used exclamation points. He was the calmest man I knew, a scoundrel in the Chicago legal world. If Michael told me not to go, it meant a bomb had gone off or the building had collapsed.
I closed the door, my hands shaking as I dialed Michael’s number.
“Arthur,” Michael’s voice rang out immediately, low, serious, and filled with an urgency I had never heard in the 30 years I had worked with him. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the door, about to go to Sarah’s. What’s going on, Michael? Are the stocks down?”
“No. Listen to me, Arthur. You’re not allowed in her house tonight. Go back inside and lock the door. I’m on my way.”
“Why? Sarah’s waiting for me…”
“Arthur!” Michael snapped, breaking his usual professionalism. “I’ve just received a file… from an inside source at the Family Court. It’s about your daughter’s plans. If you go there tonight, you’ll never get home again.”
I froze. The bottle of wine in my hand felt heavy. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Give me 15 minutes. Don’t call Sarah. Don’t answer her texts.”
The longest 15 minutes of my life passed in utter confusion. I sat on the sofa, staring at my phone. Sarah texted twice: “Are you leaving yet? We’re waiting.” and “Dad?”
The doorbell rang. I looked through the security camera. It was Michael.
He walked in, his coat still on, holding a blue clipboard—the kind used for court filings. He placed it on the glass table and pushed it toward me.
“Read it,” Michael said, pouring himself a stiff drink without asking.
I opened the file. The bold words caught my eye:
EMERGENCY CONSERVATORSHIP PETITION.
Petitioner: Dr. Sarah Vance-Miller.
Subject: Arthur Vance.
Reasons: Dementia, Mental instability, Violent tendencies.
My hands were shaking. “What? I’m perfectly sane! I ran a half marathon last month! I run a hedge fund…”
“Read on,” Michael pointed to the second page. “‘Evidence of Event’.”
I read. And my blood froze.
In the form, Sarah listed an event that occurred on… today, Sunday, November 14.
It read: “At 7:30 p.m., during dinner at the petitioner’s residence, Mr. Arthur Vance had a paranoid episode, attacked his son-in-law, Greg Miller, with a steak knife, and threatened suicide. Mr. Vance exhibited severe behavioral incontinence, endangering himself and others. He should be involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric hospital and placed under financial guardianship immediately.”
I looked at my watch. It was 6:45 p.m.
The event hadn’t happened yet.
“It…it was written down?” I stammered.
“Yes,” Michael said, his voice icy. “This is a trap, Arthur. A carefully orchestrated trap. When you get there tonight, they’re going to provoke you. Maybe Greg will say something insulting about your late wife, or Sarah will do something to upset you. If you raise your voice, or worse, pick up a knife… they’ll call 911.”
“But the police will investigate…”
“Sarah’s a psychiatrist,” Michael interrupted. “Her testimony carries professional weight. She prepared your fake medical records six months ago at her clinic. If the police come and find you agitated (which they’ll make sure happens), combined with this record, they’ll apply for a 5150 (72-hour mandatory psychiatric hold). And in those 72 hours, Sarah will file this petition with the court to take control of all your assets as emergency guardian.”
I slumped into my chair. My daughter. My favorite child. She doesn’t just want my money. She wants to take away my freedom. She wants to make me a prisoner in my own body and life.
I was alone, locked in a mental institution while he spent my life’s work.
“Why?” I whispered, tears welling up.
Michael pulled out another piece of paper. “Greg is broke. He’s blown $15 million on cryptocurrencies and phantom projects. He owes the mob. Sarah knows about it. They need cash, Arthur. Now. And you’re the only ATM.”
The pain turned to anger. The cold, sharp anger of someone who’d been around the business world to survive.
“What do we do, Michael? Can I sue him?”
“The lawsuit will drag on. And the stigma of ‘psycho’ will affect your reputation,” Michael shook his head. “But I have something better.”
Michael pulled out a tablet. “My private investigator put a bug in Greg’s phone last week, when I started to suspect he was secretly trading your small stocks. Check this out.”
Michael pulled up a video. It was from Sarah’s living room security camera—a camera I’d installed for security, and I had master access to (something Sarah had obviously forgotten).
On the screen, Sarah and Greg were in the kitchen. The time was 6:00 this afternoon. They were… practicing.
“Okay, Greg, you’re going to say, ‘Dad, Mom died because you didn’t care about her,'” Sarah instructed, her face cold and intimidating. “That’ll definitely drive him crazy. He’ll throw his drink. At that moment, I’ll scream and you’ll fall to the floor, clutching your face.”
Greg nodded, holding a small bottle of pills. “What about this one?”
“Put it in his soup,” Sarah said. “It’s a mild stimulant that will make his hands shake and his speech slurred when the police arrive. They’ll think it’s Alzheimer’s.”
I looked at my daughter on the screen. She was rehearsing the destruction of her father like a horror film director. She was no longer my little Sarah. She was a monster.
“Turn it off,” I said hoarsely.
“What do you want to do, Arthur?” Michael asked. “We can call the police now.”
I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the bright lights of Chicago.
“No. It’s too easy to call the police. She’ll use her mental health history to try to get away with it, or say Greg forced her. I want a more thorough end.”
I turned and looked at Michael. “Do you have the will and power of attorney we were going to amend last month?”
“Yes, always carry it with you.”
“Good. And do you know anyone in the Evanston Chicago Police Department?”
Michael smiled, a knowing smile. “The chief is my golf buddy.”
“Call him. And get my doctor here for a blood test and a mental health clearance right away. I need proof I’m sober and clean before dinner.”
7:00 PM.
I texted Sarah: “Dad’s on his way. Traffic’s a bit tight. Don’t wait for dinner.”
I needed them to keep the scene intact.
7:30 PM.
At Sarah’s house, according to the camera on Michael’s tablet, everything was ready. The table was beautifully set. The bottle of poison was hidden. Sarah and Greg sat there, tense, waiting for their prey to walk into the trap.
But it wasn’t me who walked in.
Bang!
The front door was smashed open.
A SWAT team and Evanston Police rushed in.
“Police! Stay put!”
Sarah screamed, dropping her glass of wine. Greg tried to run out the back door but was tackled to the floor by an officer.
From behind the police team, Michael entered, holding a tablet that was live-streaming the raid for me to see at home.
“What’s going on?” Sarah yelled, trying to maintain her calm, doctor-like demeanor. “What are you doing? This is a private residence! Where’s my dad?”
“Your dad’s in a safe place, Ms. Vance,” the Sheriff stepped forward. “We’ve received a report of attempted poisoning and false imprisonment.”
“Bullshit! Who told you?”
“You,” the Sheriff pointed to the security camera on the ceiling. “And the recording of you instructing your husband to provoke the victim.”
The color drained from Sarah’s face. She looked up at the camera, realizing her fatal mistake.
The police quickly seized the bowl of soup on the table – the bowl meant for me. The forensic team did a quick spot test.
“Positive for high dose amphetamine,” the forensic officer announced.
Sarah collapsed in her chair. Greg, shaking, started crying: “It was her! It was her idea! I just followed! Don’t arrest me!”
Michael picked up his phone, pointing the camera at Sarah, who was handcuffed.
“Arthur, do you have anything to say?”
I looked at the screen. Sarah looked up, saw me on FaceTime. Her eyes, those eyes that had once looked at me innocently, were now filled with fear and hatred.
“Dad…” she whispered. “Are you spying on me?”
“No, Sarah,” I said, my voice echoing in her silent kitchen. “Dad wasn’t spying on you. He was protecting you. He installed that camera to protect you from thieves. He never thought it would one day be used to protect him from his own daughter.”
“I’m sorry…
Dad, Greg owes money to gangsters… they threatened to kill me…” Sarah began her tearful tirade.
“That’s enough,” I interrupted. “If I needed money, I would just ask. Have you ever said no to me? But I don’t want to ask. I want to rob. I want to put you in an insane asylum so I don’t have to be indebted, so I can spend it.”
I took a deep breath, swallowing the pain inside.
“Sarah Vance, as of this moment, I, Arthur Vance, am officially disinheriting you. My entire estate will be transferred to a charity in your mother’s name tomorrow morning. You will not receive a penny. And for the charges of attempted murder and elder abuse, you will lose your medical license.”
“No! You can’t do that! “You’re my only daughter!” Sarah screamed hysterically as the police dragged her away.
“I don’t have a daughter,” I said coldly. “The daughter I raised died tonight.”
Michael hung up. The screen went black.
I sat alone in the huge penthouse. The bottle of Château Margaux still stood there, unopened.
I had won. I had escaped the trap. I had kept my wealth and my freedom.
But I had lost everything.
I looked out the window. Snow was starting to fall.
They say money can’t buy happiness. But today I realized a bitter truth: Money can turn your closest loved ones into demons.
I poured the wine into a glass. I drank it alone. The wine tasted acrid and bitter, just like my life right now.
Tomorrow, I’d go to the lawyer’s office to sign the papers. Then, maybe, I’d sell the company, sell this house, and move to an island somewhere. A place without winter, and most importantly, without Sunday dinners of death.
I raised my glass, toasted to my survival, and shed a tear for my lost daughter.
