Paige Booked My Beach House—Then I Found My Signature on a Sale Contract

The deputy spoke to the guard, then to the Tide & Table crew. Finally he called me from the gate.

“Ms. Carter, your sister says she has your permission.”

“She doesn’t. I sent her a text yesterday saying no. I can forward it.”

“Please do.”

He asked whether I wanted her removed from the property. She was still outside the gate, so there was no trespass inside the house to address. He could tell everyone to clear the private entrance and keep the road open.

“I’d also like to report a forged contract,” I said.

“That will take a separate report. Keep the document and anything else you receive.”

Before the deputy could end the call, Paige appeared in the camera frame beside him. He held out the phone.

“Bella,” she said, her voice suddenly bright. “This has gotten ridiculous. Tell him it’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

“These people drove for hours.”

“Because you invited them after I said no.”

“I planned a family weekend. You hired guards.”

“Who is Carter Coastal Collection?”

The brightness dropped away. “It’s a name for the reunion.”

“Why did an event company send me a contract with my forged signature?”

Paige glanced at the deputy. “I used a template. You never answer anything until the last second, and vendors need paperwork. Nobody was hurt.”

“Were people charged to come?”

“They chipped in for food.”

“How much?”

“Bella, don’t do this in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t put everyone there.”

She handed the phone back to the deputy.

The cars began leaving after that. My mother remained long enough to send me a message: I hope you’re proud of humiliating your sister.

I stared at it for a long time. Then an unfamiliar number appeared on my phone.

The message said: I’m your cousin Rachel. Paige told us this was a wellness retreat you were hosting. We paid $850 each. I think you should know.

Rachel attached a screenshot. Paige had advertised four days at a private oceanfront home, catered meals, guided yoga, and a surgeon-led session on stress and the brain. My photograph, cropped from the hospital website, sat beside the description.

I called Rachel. She answered from a gas station parking lot.

“I’m so sorry,” she said before I spoke. “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t. Would you send me everything Paige sent you?”

“Yes. She made us pay through Carter Coastal Collection. She said a portion went to a scholarship you started for girls entering medicine.”

There was no scholarship.

Rachel had brought her daughter because the girl wanted to be a doctor. They’d saved for months to make the trip.

After we hung up, I sat at the kitchen table and opened every attachment she sent. The schedule named me as Saturday’s keynote speaker. Another page promised guests a private conversation with “Dr. Bella Carter and her daughter Milo,” under a photograph Paige had taken at Christmas without asking us.

I closed the laptop before Milo could see it.

The next morning, Ethan and I drove to the beach house. The guard let us through the gate. Outside, the street was empty except for pale tire marks in the sand.

Inside, nothing had been disturbed. Paige hadn’t got past the gate. Even so, I walked through every room, opening closets and checking windows. On the kitchen counter sat the welcome packet we’d allowed the Tide & Table driver to leave with the guard as evidence.

It held a linen bag, a printed itinerary, a scented candle, and a card that said, Welcome to the Carter Coastal Collection. Your family’s next chapter begins here.

Tucked behind the card was a brochure.

At first I thought it was another schedule. Then I saw the floor plan of my house and a price at the bottom: $12,000 for an exclusive four-day stay.

There were six available weekends listed through the end of summer. Two were marked SOLD.

The reunion had been the first booking. Paige intended to keep renting out my house.

I called the number on the brochure. A man answered, “Carter Coastal Collection.”

I said I was interested in the July weekend. He told me it had already been reserved, but August was open. For a deposit, he would hold it immediately.

“Who owns the property?” I asked.

“Ms. Carter and her sister.”

“Which Ms. Carter?”

“Dr. Bella Carter. Paige handles the reservations.”

I gave him my full name. He stopped speaking.

An hour later, he emailed me the rental agreement Paige had given him. It carried the same false signature. More importantly, it contained an account number for deposits at a bank I had never used.

By Monday, I had an attorney. I filed a fraud report with the sheriff’s office, froze my credit, and asked the county recorder’s office to alert me to any document filed against the property. My attorney sent preservation letters to Paige, the event company, the booking agent, and the bank receiving the deposits.

For three days, Paige called me selfish. Then she tried frightened.

“You’re going to ruin my life over a party?” she asked when I finally answered.

“You sold stays at my house.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“Before or after the August guests arrived?”

“I needed money. You have plenty.”

“You put Milo’s picture in an advertisement.”

“That was a family photo.”

I nearly ended the call. Instead, I asked, “Where are the deposits?”

“I’ll pay people back.”

“You haven’t answered me.”

She hung up.

The answer came the following week through the investigator assigned to the case. The deposit account belonged to Paige’s new business. She had collected payments from thirty-one reunion guests and deposits from two unrelated groups for future weekends. Some of the money had paid Tide & Table. Most had gone toward her overdue mortgage and credit cards.

The investigator also found that Paige had submitted my forged venue agreement to the booking agent before she ever texted me about the reunion. Her message telling me to stock the fridge had come after she’d taken people’s money.

She hadn’t expected me to agree. She’d expected me to give in once the cars arrived.

My mother asked to meet at our house after she learned police were involved. She sat at the kitchen table where I’d first read Paige’s text, twisting a tissue in her hands.

“Paige made terrible decisions,” she said. “But she was desperate.”

“Did you know guests had paid?”

“Not until they arrived.”

“Did you know I’d said no?”

Mom looked toward the hall.

“Yes.”

She’d heard about the retreat weeks earlier. Paige had told her I was “being difficult” about confirming it. Mom had urged relatives to come anyway because she believed I would let them in once they were there.

“I thought it was just family,” she said.

“Rachel paid eight hundred and fifty dollars. Other people paid more. You helped send them to my gate.”

Her eyes filled. “I didn’t know about the money.”

I believed that. I also knew she’d ignored the part she did know because it was easier than confronting Paige.

“Milo heard us talking Friday,” I said. “She asked if the people at the gate would be angry with her.”