The cold tile beneath me offered a grounding, relentless reality: my five-year nightmare was officially coming to an end.

The room froze. Sixty socialites turned in unison toward the entrance.

Two uniformed officers from the Chicago Police Department stepped across the marble threshold, their tactical vests sharp and imposing against the sea of evening gowns and tuxedos. Flanking them was a tall, sharp-featured woman in a charcoal pencil suit carrying a thick leather briefcase—Darcy—accompanied by two official court process servers holding bright yellow legal folders.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Julian shouted, his face instantly flushing red with outrage as he stepped away from the table. "This is a private residence! How dare you walk into my home during my mother's party?!"

"Mr. Julian Vance?" the lead police officer asked, his voice booming across the silent room.

"Yes, I am Julian Vance!" Julian spat, walking toward them aggressively. "And this is my penthouse! Leave immediately or I will have the Chief of Police on the phone!"

Darcy stepped forward, her heels clicking crisply against the marble floor. She didn't even look at Julian; her eyes swept the room, taking in the shocked faces of Chicago's elite, before locking onto Fiona, who was still clutching the silver dome cover in mid-air.

"Correction, Mr. Vance," Darcy said, her voice dropping like a guillotine. "This penthouse is owned exclusively by the Sloan Vance Revocable Living Trust. You are merely an uninvited occupant whose temporary license to occupy these premises has just been legally revoked."

A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the gathered socialites. Evelyn Croft’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"What?!" Fiona shrieked, dropping the silver dome lid onto the floor with a deafening, metallic CLANG that made several women jump. "Sloan! What is this madness?! Tell these people to leave!"

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my sparkling water, stepped out from the shadow of the foyer, and walked directly to Darcy’s side.

"I can't do that, Fiona," I said, my voice smooth, cold, and entirely devoid of emotion. "You see, Darcy isn't here to ruin your party. She’s here to deliver your birthday gifts."

The senior process server stepped forward, pulling two thick sets of legal documents from his folder. He handed the first stack directly into Julian’s numb, outstretched hand.

"Julian Vance, you are officially served with an emergency Ex-Parties Order of Protection granted by the Cook County Circuit Court," the process server announced loudly. "You are ordered to vacate these premises immediately. You are barred from coming within 500 feet of Sloan Vance, her place of business, or her assets."

Before Julian could even digest the words, the second process server stepped up to Fiona, pressing the second stack of papers against her emerald silk dress.

"Fiona Vance, you are served with a formal Notice of Eviction and an Emergency Asset Freeze Order, locking all accounts associated with J&F Design Holdings."

"Asset freeze?!" Fiona screamed, her voice cracking into a terrifying, high-pitched screech. "You can't freeze my accounts! Julian! Do something!"

Julian was frantically flipping through the papers, his hands shaking violently. "This... this is absurd! Judge Katherine Vance signed this?! Based on what?!"

"Based on domestic battery, unlawful physical restraint, financial extortion, and tax fraud," Darcy replied smoothly, pulling a sleek digital tablet from her briefcase. She tapped the screen, turning it toward the crowd of guests.

Julian’s own voice echoed out of the high-definition tablet speakers, loud enough for every single socialite in the room to hear clearly:

“Listen to me very carefully... Tomorrow is my mother’s sixtieth birthday. You will cook a heritage feast of sixty distinct dishes. If you are missing a single one, pack your bags and get out of my house.”

Followed by the horrifying, metallic sound of the deadbolt locking from the outside.

The dining room went dead quiet. Evelyn Croft looked at Fiona with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust. Several women pulled back, covering their mouths in horror.

"You... you recorded me?!" Julian stammered, his face turning from red to an ashen, ghost-like white.

"Every word, Julian," I said softly, stepping closer to him. "You told me to cook sixty dishes or get out. Well... the sixty dishes are served. But as for getting out..."