Two Exclusive Contracts Met On The Same Audit Table

Nadia printed the territory pages and put them side by side.

"Same design," she said. "Same states. Overlapping dates. Different promises."

Juniper's agreement began in January 2024. I'd signed its attached rider in blue ink. Silver Mesa's agreement began in January 2025. I hadn't seen it until that week.

Silver Mesa had paid $15,000 each quarter. Another $60,000 had gone to Harbor Basin.

"One hundred eight thousand dollars," I said.

"That is what these records show," Nadia said. "We still need the receiving account and the books."

She contacted both clients' lawyers with my approval. She asked them to preserve their agreements and payment records. She didn't tell them everything would be fine.

"Juniper has a signed license from you," she told me. "Silver Mesa paid for something your wife had no authority to grant. They may have claims against the company and the people who made those promises."

"Could they come after me?"

"They may try. That's why we deal with it now."

I liked her less for a minute. Then I trusted her more.

An independent accountant named Marta Bell came to the workshop Thursday morning. I gave her our shared records and access through my company account. Simone stood in her office doorway while Marta unpacked a small scanner.

"You hired an auditor?" Simone asked.

"An accountant to review the records," I said.

"With what money?"

"My savings."

I had paid Nadia a $4,000 retainer and Marta $1,500. It left $2,860 in the account I'd built from weekend repairs.

Simone stared at me.

"So you hid money."

"The account was on our annual household sheet. You prepared it."

Marta looked up.

"I need the Harbor Basin statements."

"That's a separate company," Simone said.

"Receiving payments for these contracts."

"Keoni authorized the arrangement."

"Please show me the authorization."

Simone went back into her office.

Marta worked through the debt summary. The $84,700 included $26,800 owed to suppliers, a $9,400 tax reserve, $12,500 in overdue rent, and a $36,000 consulting charge.

"Who's the consultant?" I asked.

Marta turned the invoice toward me.

Harbor Basin Consulting.

The service line read: Brand Recovery And Strategic Exit.

"Did anyone recover our brand?" Ikaika asked.

"Please save that for after I check the ledger," Marta said.

There was no signed service agreement in the records. No time sheets. No written approval from me. The charge had appeared two weeks before the proposed sale.

The real bills still mattered. Our aluminum supplier had stopped deliveries. Our landlord had sent a demand. I walked through the shop and counted the partly built props waiting for metal.

I couldn't pay them with anger.

I called the supplier and gave him a date for my next update. I promised no payment I couldn't make. He said he would hold our cut sheets until Monday. That small kindness nearly broke me.

That afternoon, Simone asked me to meet her alone by the drafting bench.

"You're going to scare the clients," she said.

"They paid for exclusive rights. Both of them."

"Different shows. Different audiences."

"Same states. Same dates."

She folded her arms.

"We were going to merge the arrangements after the sale. Evan has contacts."

"Did Juniper agree?"

"You make everything sound ugly."

I opened the service hatch on Stillwater. With my eyes closed, I pressed the release and listened. One clean click. I'd adjusted the hinge that morning because someone would still have to climb inside this cabinet.

"Look at me," she said.

I opened my eyes.

"Show me one client who agreed," I said.

She walked away.

By evening, Nadia had filed a civil case in Clark County. It sought an accounting, protection of the disputed assets, and a ruling on the rights they planned to sell. She submitted my declaration and the signed agreements with an urgent request to stop Friday's closing.

We asked the court to preserve the money and records. We didn't ask it to decide the entire case overnight.

Ikaika wanted to stay at the shop.

"I'll sleep against the loading door."

"You'll go home," I said. "Come back at seven. Bring your charger."

"That's my big job?"

"Tomorrow might be long."

He nodded. When pressure finally gave him a task, he could hold it like a brace under a falling flat.

At eight, Evan arrived carrying a slim document bag. A process server was waiting outside and handed him the case papers before he reached our door.

He read the first page beneath the loading light.

Then he came inside.

"You want to do this in court?" he asked.

"I want the sale stopped."

He set his bag on my bench.

"Then you should see what your wife says you already signed."