Chapter 4 - The Eviction of the Parasites
By 2:00 PM, the luxury penthouse overlooking downtown Denver looked less like a home and more like a staging ground for a financial evacuation.
Diane and Brooke were still inside the penthouse when the federal marshals, accompanied by Arthur Sterling and Claire, unlocked the double doors and walked in.
Diane jumped up from the velvet sofa in the living room, her face twisted in rage and panic. “What is the meaning of this? Who let these people in? Brooke, call Ryan right now—some lunatics are walking through our home!”
“Your home, Diane?” Claire’s voice cut through the spacious living room like a scalpel.
Diane spun around, her eyes locking onto Claire standing in the doorway in her coat. Behind Claire stood two marshals and a team of professional movers.
“You!” Diane shrieked, pointing a long, manicured fingernail at Claire’s chest. “You ungrateful, hysterical bitch! Because of your little tantrum last night, Ryan is missing from his phone, our credit cards are blocked, and now you’re bringing strangers into our house? Get out!”
“It’s not your house, Diane,” Claire said calmly, pulling the original deed out of her leather portfolio and holding it up. “My name is the only one on the title. And as of noon today, my attorneys have officially voided the fraudulent mortgage your son tried to take out behind my back.”
Brooke dropped her designer coffee mug onto the hardwood floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. “You can’t kick us out! We’re family!”
“Family doesn't watch an elderly man burn a pregnant woman with a cigarette,” Claire replied coldly. She turned to the marshals and the moving crew. “Get them out.”
“You can’t do this!” Diane screamed, thrashing and cursing as two female marshals gently but firmly escorted her toward the door. “Grant! Grant, get out here! These people are throwing us out!”
Grant Vance lumbered out of the master bedroom, wearing a silk bathrobe, holding a glass of scotch. His face was puffy from a morning of heavy drinking, and his expression was as arrogant as ever—until he saw the badges on the marshals’ chests and the cold, unyielding look in Claire’s eyes.
“What’s going on here?” Grant grunted, taking a sip of his scotch. “Claire, stop acting like a spoiled child and tell these cops to leave.”
“Your son was arrested an hour ago for federal bank fraud and forgery,” Claire said quietly, walking right up to her father-in-law. “And you, Grant, are next. The police have the security footage of last night. Assaulting a pregnant woman is a felony. Enjoy your last few minutes in my penthouse.”
Grant’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. He raised a heavy hand, stepping forward as if to strike her again. “You little piece of—'”
Before Grant could finish his sentence, a marshal stepped between them, forcefully shoving Grant back against the hallway wall and pinning his arms behind his back.
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“Do not move, sir,” the marshal warned.
Within forty-five minutes, Diane, Brooke, and Grant Vance were standing on the freezing sidewalk outside the penthouse lobby, surrounded by twenty designer suitcases and trash bags containing their personal belongings, while curious pedestrians and paparazzi—tipped off by Arthur’s media team—snapped photographs from across the street.
