“And those deals require you to drain our personal accounts?” I asked.
“They require capital,” he said, checking his watch again. “The refinancing is a simple bridge loan. The paperwork is standard. Don’t make a corporate necessity into a personal drama.”
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick blue folder, sliding it across the desk. It landed with a heavy thud on top of the financial statement.
“Speaking of the company, I need you to sign this refinancing authorization for the Brooklyn apartment,” he said, sliding a silver pen toward me. “I need it fully executed by five o’clock.”
I looked at the top page, which was dense with legal descriptions of our pre-marital home. The property had belonged to my family for forty years, and we had lived there together since our wedding.
“Why is there an urgent need to refinance?” I asked, my finger tracing the embossed seal on the paper. “The mortgage is nearly paid off, and we agreed we would never use the apartment as business collateral.”
“It releases critical equity we need for the Queens expansion,” he said, tapping the watch again. “The market is moving fast, and I cannot have my hands tied by sentimentality.”
I did not pick up the pen he offered. Instead, I adjusted the simple silver band on my right hand, turning it twice around my knuckle to steady my hands.
“I want to review the terms with an independent attorney first,” I said.
“We do not have time for you to overanalyze this, Claire,” he said, rising from his chair and grabbing his damp wool coat from the rack. “The notary is coming to the office tomorrow morning, and I expect the signed page on my desk.”
He left the room before I could ask him about the missing nine thousand dollars from our joint savings.
