Chapter 4 - The Eviction Notice
Panic is a fascinating emotion to observe in someone who has spent their entire life believing they are untouchable. Eric staggered backward off my porch, staring at me as if I had just spoken a foreign language.
“What do you mean, your house?” he sputtered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. “We live here together! We pay the mortgage—!”
“You pay a minor utility stipend into a joint account while I pay the entire primary mortgage and property tax out of my personal corporate account,” I interrupted, pulling a printed legal document from behind my back and handing it directly to him. “That is a formal thirty-day notice to vacate the premises. Since you told me yesterday not to bother coming back tonight, I’m simply honoring your boundary on a permanent basis.”
Eric looked down at the paper as if it were a venomous snake. His hands shook so violently the pages rustled in the cold wind.
“Claire, you can’t do this,” he whispered, his tough exterior completely disintegrated. “Where am I supposed to go? My parents’ house is surrounded by federal investigators and reporters! I have nowhere to go!”
“That sounds like a personal problem, Eric,” I replied smoothly. “Perhaps you can call Vanessa. I hear she’s exceptionally good at managing your family’s expectations.”
His face drained of every remaining drop of color. The mention of his ex-girlfriend—the weapon Diane had used to humiliate me just twenty-four hours earlier—hit him like a physical blow.
“How did you... how did you know about Vanessa?” he stammered.
“Diane talked about her constantly for five years, Eric. Do you really think I didn't know you kept in touch with her on LinkedIn and text behind my back?” I smiled coldly. “You’re transparent, Eric. All of you are. You thought you could treat me like an invisible servant while living a double life of financial fraud and emotional abuse. You severely miscalculated.”
Before he could muster another word, I stepped back inside my foyer and closed the heavy oak door right in his face, sliding the deadbolt home with a satisfying, echoing click.
Through the frosted glass window, I watched him stand frozen on the porch for a long, agonizing minute before turning around and trudging dejectedly down the walkway toward his car.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen island.
May you like
It was an alert from Arthur Vance: Federal marshals just executed the search warrant on Richard Mercer’s primary estate. They’re seizing everything. Outstanding work, Claire.
I walked over to the kitchen island, poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, and smiled. Thanksgiving might have started as a disaster, but the leftovers were proving to be deliciously sweet.
