Chapter 7 - Eviction Day
The Greenwich police cruiser sat idling at the edge of the circular cobblestone driveway.
Beside it stood two county sheriffs, holding clipboards and a set of master keys.
Barbara Vance was currently sitting on the manicured front lawn, surrounded by twenty designer cardboard boxes, shrieking at the top of her lungs.
“You cannot do this! This is my home! My son is Luke Vance! We belong here!”
A young deputy sheriff, completely unfazed, checked a box on his legal manifest. “Ma’am, this property was foreclosed by Sterling Capital Management at 9:00 AM. You’ve been given four hours to remove personal clothing and toiletries. The moving truck for your furniture has been canceled due to non-payment.”
Luke arrived in a rented yellow cab, paid for with the last ninety dollars of cash he had scavenged from his glove compartment.
When he stepped out into the damp afternoon air, he saw his entire life dumped onto the curb.
His Italian leather armchairs were being tagged with repossession stickers. His collection of vintage Scotch was being loaded into a wooden crate by court-appointed trustees. Even the wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the estate were being chained shut.
“Luke!” Barbara wailed, crawling toward him on her knees, her silk blouse stained with mud from the lawn. “Do something! They’re taking everything! Where are we supposed to sleep tonight?”
Luke stood paralyzed.
Just seventy-two hours ago, he was standing in a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo at the Plaza, being toasted as the visionary entrepreneur of the decade. He had raised his hand and struck the woman who built his empire, laughing as she bled.
Now, he was standing on a wet roadside in Connecticut, homeless, broke, and universally hated.
A sleek black Maybach rolled smoothly up the driveway, stopping just three feet from where Luke stood.
The rear window lowered silently.
I looked out at him.
I wasn't wearing makeup to hide my bruise anymore. The faint purple mark along my cheekbone stood as a badge of survival. I wore a charcoal coat and pearl earrings—real pearls, gifted to my mother by a European monarch before I was born.
Luke rushed to the window, falling to his knees beside the tire.
“Samantha!” he cried out, tears washing clean paths through the dirt on his face. “Samantha, please! Look at my mother! Look at what you’re doing to us! Have you no mercy? We were married! We loved each other!”
“You never loved me, Luke,” I said, my voice as calm as an arctic lake. “You loved the silence I provided. You loved that I worked twelve hours a day without asking for credit. You loved having a punching bag who funded your delusions of grandeur.”
“I’ll change!” Luke sobbed, grabbing the door handle. A security guard immediately stepped out of the front passenger seat, pinning Luke’s shoulder to the gravel. “I swear to God, Samantha, I’ll get on my knees on live television! I’ll apologize to your father! Just give me back the company! Just give me a second chance!”
I leaned slightly closer to the window.
“When I was on the floor of the Plaza, bleeding on broken glass,” I murmured, “you raised your foot to kick me. Did you think about second chances then?”
Luke’s voice died in his throat.
“You made your choice, Luke,” I said. “Now live with the bill.”
May you like
I tapped the glass. The driver pressed the accelerator, and the Maybach pulled away, leaving Luke Vance face-down in the mud of the home he had stolen with my money.
***
