In college, I struggled to pay tuition. I asked my well-off brother for $500. He said, “I don’t believe in handouts.
Learn responsibility!” I cried for days. Now I’m well-off, and he’s in debt from a bad business deal, begging for $5K. I saw my shot at payback, but to avoid looking petty, I agreed, took his account details, then instead…
I booked a hotel in his city for the weekend and sent him a vague text saying, “Something came up.
I’ll wire the money Monday. Just hang tight.”
He didn’t even say thank you. Just replied, “Hurry.
I’m drowning.”
Truth was, I wasn’t about to wire him a dime. Not until I figured out what exactly had gone wrong on his end. See, growing up, Rajiv always acted like he was better than me.
He was three years older, got scholarships, internships, mentors—all the golden child stuff. I was the “artsy one,” the “dreamer,” aka the kid no one bet on. He told me once, when I was 19 and working two jobs while studying, “You made your bed.
Sleep in it.”
That stuck. Deep. So when he called me out of the blue last month—voice trembling, talking about how he needed $5,000 fast or he’d lose his apartment and his credit would be shot—I didn’t feel pity.
I felt…confusion, honestly. Rajiv had always been stable. He wore loafers to brunch.
Had three credit cards and a backup savings fund. What the hell happened? I wasn’t about to ask directly.
Rajiv would never tell the full truth unless it benefited him. But I had time. And money.
And curiosity. So I used the bank info he gave me, not to send cash—but to run a quiet audit. Not illegal or anything dramatic.
Just… investigative. First, I noticed the payment to “Eastview Partners LLC”—$27,000 wired in two chunks, one in March, one in May. I looked it up.
Real estate investment company. Sounded legit. Except it wasn’t.
Buried on page six of Google was a forum post titled, “Eastview Partners Took My Money and Vanished.”
There were dozens of comments underneath. All saying the same thing: group of slick guys promising big returns on low-entry properties. They’d charm you, flash fake contracts, then ghost.
Rajiv got scammed. Badly. And I should have felt smug.
I should have relished that little burst of karmic justice. Instead, I felt sick. Not because he didn’t deserve it—he kind of did—but because he wasn’t built for this kind of failure.
Rajiv had never not been in control. He didn’t know how to scramble. And me?
I was a professional scrambler. I didn’t wire him the $5K. Instead, I did something no one—least of all Rajiv—would have expected from me.
I got on a train. Five hours. Just me, my backpack, and a plan forming slowly.
He lived in Jersey City in a condo his fiancée, Noémie, had helped him decorate. It was sleek and sterile. All beige furniture and navy accents.
When he opened the door and saw me, he blinked. “What are you doing here?”
I held up a paper bag. “Brought parathas.
Figured you could use a proper meal.”
He looked like crap. Sunken eyes. Unshaven.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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