Chapter 5 - THE EMBARRASSING RETURN
At 10:00 AM on Friday morning—the day after Thanksgiving—a sleek silver SUV pulled up to the curb outside my Lincoln Park condo.
I stepped out of the vehicle, wearing sunglasses, a long black wool coat, and leather boots. Flanking me were two off-duty police officers I had hired through Zoe’s agency as private security, along with a professional locksmith carrying a heavy tool bag.
The neighborhood was quiet, decorated with festive Christmas lights that had gone up over the week.
We walked up the steps to the front door of the condo I had shared with Mark for five years. I pulled out my key ring, inserted my brass key into the lock, and turned it.
It clicked uselessly.
Mark had changed the deadbolt overnight.
I let out a short, cynical laugh. Of course he had. Mark still believed he was playing a game of territory, thinking that locking me out of my own home would force me to negotiate on his terms.
I turned to the locksmith. “Cut it open.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the locksmith said, pulling out a power drill and a heavy-duty lock-picker.
Within forty-five seconds, the high-powered drill ground through the brass cylinder, sparking sharply before the door swung open with a loud thud.
We stepped into the foyer.
Inside, the living room was a complete disaster. Empty scotch glasses sat on the glass coffee table, takeaway boxes from the night before were scattered across the kitchen island, and sitting on the sofa in his crumpled dress shirt from Thanksgiving dinner was Mark.
Beside him sat his mother, Carol, wrapped in a mink shawl, holding a cup of coffee.
Both of them jumped up in sheer shock as my two tall, uniformed security guards stepped into the room ahead of me.
“What the hell!” Mark yelled, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You drilled my locks? This is my house!”
“Correction, Mark,” I said calmly, stepping past the guards and removing my sunglasses. “This is our house. And according to the emergency court order served to your lawyer two hours ago, you have thirty minutes to pack your personal belongings and clear out.”
Carol stood up, her face twisted in rage, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You low-class monster! You locked our family accounts! Frank couldn't even process his corporate payroll this morning because of your legal tricks!”
“Good,” I replied coldly. “Maybe Frank should have taught his daughter not to assault children if he wanted a peaceful payroll Friday.”
Mark rushed toward me, his hands raised in desperation. “Chloe, please! Stop this madness! My mother spent the night here because Megan is hysterical at home! We are your family!”
One of my security guards immediately stepped between Mark and me, placing a massive hand against Mark’s chest, holding him firmly six feet away.
“Sir, keep your distance from the client,” the guard warned sternly.
Mark looked at the guard, then looked at me, tears forming in his eyes. “Chloe... you hired bodyguards against me? Your husband?”
“You stopped being my husband the second you told me to 'let it go' while our daughter’s face was burning from your sister’s hand,” I told him, my voice devoid of any softness. “You chose your family, Mark. Now you get to live with them.”
I walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up a stack of mail, and threw it into my designer bag.
“Locksmith,” I called out. “Install the new electronic smart locks immediately. Program only my fingerprint into the system.”
“Right away, ma’am,” the locksmith replied, setting to work on the door frame.
Carol grabbed her designer purse, scoffing loudly as she pulled Mark by the arm. “Come, Mark! Don't degrade yourself in front of this ungrateful woman! Let her have this empty apartment. My lawyer will have her in jail by Monday!”
“Your lawyer, Carol,” I chimed in as they walked toward the door, “is currently trying to figure out how to stop the IRS from looking into the $85,000 wire transfers Mark made from Lily’s account. I’d advise you to save your money for bail.”
Mark stopped at the doorway, looking back at the life he was losing—the beautiful apartment, the family photos on the wall, the quiet life we had built before his family’s arrogance destroyed it all.
“Chloe...” he choked out. “Where am I supposed to go?”
May you like
I looked at him one last time, feeling no pity, no regret, and no love—only the absolute clarity of a mother who had reclaimed her life.
“Go home to your mother, Mark,” I said softly. “I hear she serves great turkey.”
