Chapter 3 - THE UNWELCOME GUEST
By the next morning, Chloe’s fever had finally broken. I kept her tucked in my bed with her favorite cartoons playing on the TV, bringing her pancakes and orange juice. The sight of her eating eagerly brought tears of relief to my eyes, but beneath that relief burned a cold, calculating determination.
At 10:00 AM, the heavy front door opened downstairs.
I stood at the top of the staircase, watching as Fiona walked into the foyer carrying a ring of keys and a coffee cup from a high-end bakery. She didn't look like someone who thought anyone was home; she moved with the breezy confidence of an owner.
She froze when she looked up and saw me standing on the landing in my dark green military uniform.
The color drained from Fiona’s face so fast her lips turned blue. She nearly dropped her coffee. “Lucy? What... what are you doing here? You aren't supposed to be back until June!”
“I came home early, Fiona,” I said smoothly, walking down the stairs one slow step at a time. “And it’s a good thing I did.”
Fiona swallowed hard, adjusting her designer handbag—a brand-new, leather bag that I recognized from high-end department store catalogs. “Oh! Well, that’s... that’s wonderful! George will be so surprised. He stepped out for a quick business trip.”
“A business trip?” I repeated, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and looking her dead in the eye. “To Miami? At the Grand Sands Resort?”
Fiona’s eyes darted toward the front door as if calculating an escape route. “He... he had a property investment meeting! He asked me to drop by and check on Chloe later today.”
“Check on her later today?” My voice dropped to a whisper that echoed in the silent foyer like a steel blade sliding from its sheath. “Fiona, my five-year-old daughter was left alone in this house for forty-eight hours with a 102-degree fever. She survived on dry cereal and water.”
Fiona took an instinctive step back, raising her hands defensiveness. “Now wait a minute, Lucy! George said Teresa was coming over to watch her! It’s not George’s fault if my mother had an emergency and forgot!”
“Your mother was at a bingo tournament in Atlantic City all weekend. I checked her Facebook page an hour ago,” I said coldly. “Don't lie to me in my own house.”
Fiona’s defensive mask cracked, revealing a spiteful sneer. She straightened her posture, tossing her hair back. “Your house? You think you’re so superior just because you put on that uniform every day. George is the man of this family, Lucy! You were never here! You neglected him, you neglected your marriage, and now you want to play the martyr?”
I stepped closer to her, invading her personal space until she was forced to lean back against the heavy mahogany door frame.
“Let’s talk about my house, Fiona,” I said quietly. “And let's talk about the $3,000 a month in cash rent you’ve been paying George to run your salon in my commercial space while telling me you were operating rent-free out of 'family kindness.'”
Fiona gasped, her confidence evaporating instantly. “How did you—”
“I know about G&E Enterprises,” I continued. “I know about the forged quitclaim deed. I know about the $240,000 stolen from my inheritance. And I know about the woman in Miami.”
Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“You have twenty-four hours to vacate my commercial storefront,” I told her, my voice unnervingly calm. “If your salon equipment isn't removed by 10:00 AM tomorrow, I will lock the doors, seize the contents for unpaid back-rent, and hand the lease fraud documents directly to the state tax board.”
“You can’t do that!” Fiona shouted, her face flushed red with anger. “George owns half this house now! He signed the deed!”
“George forged a federal officer’s signature on a legal property document while I was on active deployment,” I said, stepping right up to her ear. “That isn't ownership, Fiona. That’s a ten-year felony sentence in a federal penitentiary. Now get out of my house before I have military police remove you for trespassing.”
Fiona glared at me with pure hatred, but the terror in her eyes was unmistakable. She turned around, slammed the front door behind her, and hurried down the driveway toward her salon.
I didn't waste a second. I immediately dialed Sam Harris.
“Sam, it’s time,” I said. “Issue an emergency petition for sole legal and physical custody of Chloe, file a temporary restraining order, and place an immediate freeze on all joint assets and property titles under George’s name.”
“I’m already on it, Lucy,” Sam replied. “And I’ve got some interesting news from the registry of deeds. The second name on that G&E Hospitality Group account isn't just a business partner. Her name is Erica Vance.”
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I frowned. “Vance? That’s George’s family name.”
“Erica is George’s ex-wife,” Sam revealed, his voice solemn. “The one he claimed he divorced ten years ago before he met you. Lucy... according to state records, they never filed the final decree. He’s still legally married to her.”
