He stood there, smiling in court like he hadn’t wrecked my finances, lied through his teeth, and scammed my family into a lifetime of debt we never agreed to.
I signed that timeshare contract in a rush, thinking it was a vacation—we were actually signing into a trap with no exits and no mercy.
They told me it was an “investment in memories.” What they really meant was endless bills, hidden fees, and threats if I ever tried to back out.
It was rigged from the start, and the moment I figured that out, I stopped playing nice.
They picked the wrong woman. I’m not backing down—and by the time I’m done, every lie they built this scam on is coming down with them.
Free Champagne, Full‑Throttle Lies
The moment the concierge slipped the frosted flute into my hand I felt bigger, shinier, almost untouchable.
Bubbles snapped against my upper lip while sunset lit the infinity pool in violent oranges that made every normal worry—grading essays, Mark’s sore back, Chloe’s algebra meltdown—look like grainy black‑and‑white TV.
A DJ worked a mellow remix of Fleetwood Mac. Couples swayed in slow motion; diamond rings flashed like tiny lighthouses. I stood at the rail, telling myself I deserved one carefree weekend in Cancela del Mar after slogging through another semester of seniors who believed “Hamlet” was a meme.
Then he touched my elbow.
“Laura Bennett, right?” His badge read DERRICK HANSON, OWNER SERVICES in tasteful serif. Sun‑bleached hair, faint citrus cologne, one of those honey‑rich baritones that makes you lean closer. I never asked how he knew my name; the sound of it rolling off his tongue felt like proof I’d finally been seen.
“Lucky night,” he said, pointing at a roped‑off corner where armchairs surrounded a low firepit. “VIP tasting. Local vintner. Small crowd, big pour.”
I should have clocked the predatory spark hiding behind the hospitality, but champagne gives mediocre judgment a silk dress and heels. I followed him past the velvet rope, past a clipboard girl who nodded as if I’d already earned the upgrade.
Inside the cabana a breeze fluttered white curtains around lanterns. On the teak table sat a leather folio, discreet, harmless‑looking, like any hotel room‑service menu. Derrick poured me a second glass before I finished the first.
We talked about Mark—he called him “your rock”—and Chloe’s plan to join show choir. He grinned when I mentioned teaching; his mother had taught, he said, until she “finally took her own advice and traveled.”
Every nod, every “exactly,” every “you deserve that” landed with surgical precision. By the time I noticed how often he touched my forearm my pulse was shimmying inside my ribs, half delight, half alarm.
He let the silence breathe just long enough. Then—
“We’re selecting a handful of progressive owners,” he said, sliding the folio my way. “No pressure. Just peek.”
The pages gleamed with drone shots of companion resorts—Tulum, Maui, St. Moritz—stitched together like a travel influencer’s reel. No prices floated beside the photos, only words: Escape, Legacy, Freedom.
Freedom. The irony sizzles now, but under the peach‑gold sky it tasted like the lime twist in my glass.
Derrick’s watch beeped some imaginary reminder. “I’ve kept you from the party,” he apologized, dimple flashing. “If anything interests you, flag me. Otherwise, enjoy the champagne.”
He disappeared, leaving me wedged between music and possibility. I flipped another page. A gold‑embossed card slid out:
“Exclusive preview ends tonight.”
Pressure, but packaged like privilege. I brushed condensation off my wrist and kept reading.
“Initial Here, Here, and Here”—The 90‑Second Signature That Shackled Me
Two hours later Derrick hustled me through a back corridor colder than an exam hall in January.
“I hear they’re closing the bar,” he said. “Let’s beat the rush.”
The “bar” turned out to be a narrow office fragrant with fresh toner. A framed affirmation—TURN DREAMS INTO DEEDS—hung above a steel‑gray printer. A notary named Mara hovered by the door, lipstick darker than merlot, stamp ready.
I perched on a swivel chair. Derrick placed a pen between my fingers like a conductor handing off a baton. “You’ll read it later,” he assured, sliding pages half‑covered in neon tabs. “Standard disclosures. The board wants initials next to anything remotely boring. Protects you, protects us.”
I teach rhetoric for a living, but adrenaline floods nuance. His cadence ran quick; my pen raced to keep pace.
First signature: commitment to a single “floating week.”
Second: acknowledgment of maintenance fees, “variable” depending on resort improvements.
Third: consent for electronic notification.
The folio closed with a soft click.
Mara’s stamp fired three crisp thuds, almost musical. She smiled, slid the documents into a cream envelope, and vanished. Derrick guided me back toward laughter and pool‑light, promising a complimentary couples’ massage at dawn.
The hallway smelled of citrus polish and ozone. Every step pulsed with a guilty thrill—like cutting class senior year and still scoring valedictorian. I justified it quickly: Mark works double shifts; Chloe’s braces, the roof leak, college on the horizon. A guaranteed annual escape could keep our family from grinding down to sawdust.
Derrick brushed a stray hair off my shoulder—too familiar—and said, “Smart move, Laura. Most people hesitate and miss out.”
I didn’t flinch. I smiled. Worse, I thanked him.
That One Tiny Clause Hiding Like a Scorpion in the Fine Print
Back in our suite, Mark snored, sun‑stunned after deep‑sea fishing. Chloe sprawled across the sofa bed, earbuds leaking faint pop lyrics. I set the envelope on the balcony table, trying to ignore how the corrugation of the paper felt like raised scars.