Chapter 4 - Packing the Past
The Lake Forest estate was freezing when Brandon and Heather returned later that afternoon. The smart heating system had already been remotely locked down by the new property management firm, and the smart locks on the front gates clicked shut with an ominous, mechanical finality as their dented sedan rolled up the driveway.
Rosalind sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window at the manicured hedges she had once lorded over. Her lavender dress was stained with spilled coffee from the frantic car ride home.
"Get out," Brandon mumbled, his voice dead as he cut the engine.
They walked up the grand stone steps, but the massive mahogany front doors refused to open. A sleek, digital keypad flashed a bright red error message: ACCESS DENIED.
"Open the door!" Heather shrieked, hammering her fists against the wood. "This is our house! Mom, tell them to open the door!"
A sharp click sounded overhead. A security camera above the porch tilted downward, and Gwen’s voice echoed clearly through the intercom speaker.
"Your personal belongings have been packed into twenty-four standard cardboard boxes," Gwen’s voice said, calm and steady. "They are sitting by the curb near the garbage bins. The moving truck for Rosalind’s furniture arrives on Tuesday. Please do not attempt to force entry; the local police department has already been notified of trespassing protocols."
"Gwen! Open this door right now!" Brandon screamed into the intercom, slamming his palm against the metal casing. "You can't do this to us! We’ll sue you! We’ll take you to court!"
"With what lawyer, Brandon?" Gwen replied quietly through the speaker. "Your legal retainers were paid through corporate accounts that now belong to the holding company. You are officially broke."
The intercom clicked off.
Heather let out a primal scream of rage and kicked the heavy wooden door, stubbing her toe so hard she dropped to the porch howling in pain. Rosalind just sat down on the cold stone steps, pulling her fur stole tighter around her shoulders as the November wind began to howl through the trees.
Inside the mansion, the house was completely silent.
Gwen walked through the grand foyer, her footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. She stopped in front of the nineteenth-century Persian rug—the same rug where Rosalind and Brandon had humiliated her just a few days ago over a spilled glass of wine.
She knelt down, running her fingers over the rich, intricate weave. It was a magnificent piece of art. But it was no longer a symbol of tyranny. It was just a rug.
Her phone chimed in her pocket. It was a text message from Arthur Sterling:
The forensic audit of the San Diego regional accounts is complete. Every hidden asset Brandon tried to squirrel away in offshore shells has been successfully recovered and repatriated to your personal account. You are completely clear.
Gwen looked at the message, locked her phone, and tossed it onto the mahogany side table.
For the first time in eight years, her shoulders didn't ache. There was no shopping list waiting for her on the refrigerator. There were no frantic phone calls from relatives demanding bailouts, no sarcastic remarks about her clothes, and no crushing weight of unappreciated labor.
May you like
She walked over to the grand kitchen, poured herself a fresh glass of ice water, and sat down at the large marble island.
The house was hers. Her life was hers. And for the first time, everything was accounted for down to the last penny.
