Chapter 5 - The Eviction
I took the subway home, the manila folder burning a hole in my leather tote. I walked into the house, immediately hit by the smell of expensive perfume.
Teresa was in the living room, wearing one of my silk robes, holding a glass of my vintage Bordeaux.
“You’re late,” she snapped. “Arthur is hungry. And I noticed you’ve been sneaking out during the day. Don’t think I won’t report your behavior to David. He deserves to know what kind of woman he left behind.”
“You’re right, Teresa,” I said softly, pausing at the base of the stairs. I looked at her, truly looked at her, for the first time without flinching. “David is going to find out exactly what kind of woman I am. Very, very soon.”
I walked upstairs, leaving her blinking in confusion.
I locked myself in the guest room and opened my laptop. I logged into the GPS tracker I had slipped into the lining of David’s Tumi luggage before he left. A bright red dot blinked steadily in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The Conrad Maldives.
My phone buzzed. A text from David.
Just finished a brutal 14-hour negotiation. Going to sleep now. Love you, El. Talk tomorrow.
Attached was a photo of him in a dark boardroom, looking tired. A stock photo with a green screen.
I looked at the clock. It was 6:00 AM in New York. Which meant it was 4:00 PM in the Maldives. The golden hour. He was getting dressed for his wedding.
I typed a message to Marcus: Execute the order.
Ten seconds later, Marcus replied: Bombs away.
I sat in the silence of my room, staring at the blinking red dot, my finger hovering over my phone, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But the first sign of the apocalypse didn’t come from a phone call. It came from the driveway. Heavy, diesel engines rumbling. I looked out the window and saw three large, black moving trucks pulling up to my gates, flanked by two police cruisers.
I walked downstairs, the hardwood floors feeling incredibly solid beneath my bare feet. The doorbell rang—a sharp, jarring sound that made Teresa spill her coffee on the Persian rug.
“Who on earth is that at this hour?” she squawked, dabbing at the stain frantically. “Eleanor, get the door!”
I didn’t move. I simply stood by the kitchen island, pouring myself a glass of cold water. “I think you should get it, Teresa. It’s for you.”
Muttering curses under her breath, she marched to the foyer and yanked the heavy oak door open.
Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch, flanking a man in a sharp grey suit holding a clipboard. Behind them, a crew of burly movers was already unlatching the back of the trucks.
“Teresa Hayes?” the man in the suit asked, his voice devoid of any emotion.
“Yes? What is the meaning of this? Do you know who my son is?” she demanded, puffing out her chest, trying to project the authority she used so freely on me.
“I am an agent for Sterling Debt Recovery,” the man stated, handing her a thick stack of legal documents. “Your son, David Hayes, has defaulted on a $2.4 million corporate bridge loan. As the primary guarantors, your assets are now subject to immediate seizure. Furthermore, the deed to this property has been legally transferred back to the sole ownership of Eleanor Hayes, who has terminated your residency. You have exactly thirty minutes to vacate the premises before you are arrested for trespassing.”
The blood drained from Teresa’s face so fast I thought she might faint. The paperwork slipped from her trembling hands, scattering across the marble floor.
“Arthur!” she shrieked, a high-pitched, terrified wail. “Arthur, come here!”
Arthur stumbled out of the den, rubbing his eyes, only to be met by a police officer stepping into the hallway.
“Ma’am, we need you to start packing a single bag of personal essentials,” the officer said sternly. “The movers will take the rest of the collateral.”
“This is a mistake!” Teresa screamed, turning to me, her eyes wild with panic. “Eleanor, tell them! Tell them David is a wealthy executive! Call him! Call Tokyo!”
I took a slow sip of my water, leaning against the marble counter. I let the silence stretch, letting her watch the calm, terrifying realization settle over my features.
“David isn’t in Tokyo, Teresa,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the chaos like a scythe. “He’s in the Maldives. With Chloe. Spending the money I was going to use to have our baby.”
Teresa froze. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish suffocating on dry land. She looked at the police, then at the movers, and finally, back at me. The arrogant warden was gone, replaced by a terrified, helpless old woman.
“You knew,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You knew everything.”
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“I know you packed my Birkin for his whore,” I replied, my tone flat, dead, devoid of mercy. “I know you lied. I know you helped him steal from me. And now, you are going to leave my house, or I will let these officers drag you out in handcuffs.”
The movers bypassed them, marching up the stairs to begin repossessing the luxury furniture David had bought with stolen company funds. Arthur collapsed onto the bottom step, burying his face in his hands, sobbing openly. Teresa just stood there, paralyzed by the sheer velocity of her ruin.
