Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
By the end of the first week, the Carver residence had transformed from an opulent suburban mansion into a golden prison.
Without my salary funding the automated accounts, the invisible machine that sustained their high-end lives ground to a screeching, violent halt.
On Monday afternoon, two utility trucks pulled up to the curb. The technicians walked up to the side of the house and unhooked the master fiber-optic cable and the secondary gas line for the heated outdoor pool. When Lorelai ran out to scream at them from the lawn, waving her gold jewelry in their faces, the lead technician merely pulled out a work order signed directly by the property owner—me—stating that all non-essential utility services for the address were to be terminated immediately.
On Tuesday, the private security firm that monitored the estate’s gate and alarm system canceled their coverage due to non-payment of the quarterly six-thousand-dollar retainer. The gate was left permanently open, allowing the chilly November wind to blow dead leaves across the long driveway.
On Wednesday, Brody’s brand-new luxury sports coupe was repossessed directly from the driveway at 3:00 AM. He woke up to the sound of a tow truck hoisting his pride and joy onto a flatbed. He ran outside in his underwear, screaming curses at the driver, only to be informed that the lease was six months in arrears—a fact I had been quietly managing by making monthly manual transfers that had now ceased.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Because I had shut down the high-speed smart-home system, the temperature in the massive four-thousand-square-foot estate dropped to a bitter sixty-one degrees. Lorelai sat wrapped in three cashmere shawls, her face pale, her manicured nails unpainted because her personal manicurist refused to make house calls without a working credit card on file.
Thatcher sat at the dining room table, surrounded by piles of overdue notices, bank statements, and legal papers.
For three years, Thatcher had worked as a 'Senior Investment Consultant' at a mid-tier financial brokerage—a job he had secured entirely through my professional network. His salary was sixty-five thousand dollars a year. He spent seventy-five thousand dollars a year just on his clothes, his car payments, and his weekly dinners with his friends.
He had never realized it because I had quietly absorbed every single deficit out of my three-hundred-thousand-dollar compensation package. Every time his account hit zero, my automated script would sweep funds from my secondary investment portfolio into the joint account to balance the books.
He had genuinely believed he was wealthy. He had genuinely believed that his family was providing me with a luxurious lifestyle.
"This is insane," Thatcher muttered, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He hadn't shaved in four days. "This is completely insane. She can't just stop paying for everything! It’s spousal abandonment!"
Lorelai slammed her tea cup down onto the mahogany table. "Call a lawyer, Thatcher! Call that high-powered attorney your father used to know in the city!"
"I called him, Mom!" Thatcher yelled, snapping at her for the first time in his life. "I called five lawyers! Do you know what they told me? They told me that because we don't have any children, because the house was bought entirely with her pre-marital inheritance trust, and because she filed a formal separation based on destruction of corporate property, no judge in this state is going to order her to pay us a single dime in temporary support!"
"Destruction of property?!" Lorelai gasped, her chest heaving. "Over a stupid laptop?! I am his mother! I had every right to discipline her!"
"You didn't discipline her, Mom! You smashed a company computer worth ten thousand dollars that belonged to a multi-billion-dollar firm!" Thatcher screamed, throwing his hands in the air. "They’re threatening to file federal criminal charges against you if we contest the eviction!"
Lorelai went deathly quiet. Her pale hands clutched the shawls tighter around her shoulders.
"Eviction?" Brody whimpered from the corner of the room. He was sitting on the floor near the gas fireplace—which was no longer working—trying to warm his hands over a scented candle. "What do you mean, eviction? We can't get evicted! Where are we supposed to go?"
"We have twenty-two days left," Thatcher said, his voice dropping into a hollow, defeated whisper. "After that, the Sheriff comes with a lockout order."
"No," Lorelai said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate glint of malice. "No. I won't allow it. Eloin is doing this to exert power over us. She wants us to crawl to her. She wants me to apologize."
She stood up, pulling her shawls tightly around her frame, walking over to Thatcher.
"We are going to her office," Lorelai declared, her jaw set in a rigid, hysterical line. "We are going to walk right into her fancy corporate headquarters in Manhattan. We will stand in that lobby in front of her boss, her colleagues, and her friends. We will make such a public scandal that she will have no choice but to sign the money back over to us just to save her precious reputation!"
Thatcher looked at his mother. For the first time in his life, he didn't see a wise, dignified matriarch who always knew best.
He saw a delusional, desperate woman who was dragging him down into an abyss.
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"Mom... I don't think that's a good idea," Thatcher said weakly.
"It is the only idea!" Lorelai snapped. "Get your coat, Thatcher. And put on a suit. We are going to remind that arrogant little girl who her family really is."
