Chapter 3 - The Eviction Notice
By noon, downtown Boston was humming with its usual brisk autumn rhythm, but inside the executive suites of Summit Crest Group on the thirty-second floor of One Boston Place, absolute chaos reigned.
When I stepped out of the private elevator, wearing a tailored navy wool coat and sunglasses, the open-plan bullpen looked like a war zone. Junior analysts were frantically packing boxes into cardboard containers. HR managers were huddled in hushed, panicked circles near the water coolers. And standing in the center of it all, red-faced and shouting into his phone, was Gavin.
He caught sight of me stepping out of the elevator. His phone call sputtered out mid-sentence. He dropped the handset back onto his desk and marched across the plush carpet, his chest heaving.
“What did you do?” Gavin hissed, grabbing my arm just above the elbow. His grip was tight, desperate. “Security just locked out our entire partner suite! Blue Heron’s legal counsel served us an immediate default notice! They claim we breached our commercial covenant regarding corporate ethics and property integrity!”
I pulled my arm out of his grasp with a sharp, effortless jerk, smoothing the sleeve of my coat.
“Don't touch me,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet bullpen where dozens of stunned employees paused to watch.
“You’re behind this,” Gavin muttered, his voice dropping into a frantic, shaking whisper as he leaned close. “How? How do you even know the principals at Blue Heron? They’re ghost investors! No one has ever met them!”
“Maybe you should have paid closer attention to the woman you married instead of spending your evenings entertaining Camila Summers,” I replied evenly.
Camila appeared from the glass-walled conference room at that exact moment. She looked terrible. Her makeup was smeared, her red hair was pulled back into a messy, frantic bun, and she was carrying a cardboard box filled with desk trinkets and framed photos of herself and Gavin—photos taken on private yachts and luxury getaways funded by the company expense account.
She stopped when she saw me, her face twisting into a bitter sneer.
“Oh, look,” Camila snapped, tossing her head back. “The abandoned housewife is here to gloat. Go home, Nora. Your husband doesn't want you. He never did. You’re just a boring relic from his past.”
Gavin winced, stepping between us. “Camila, shut up. Just go downstairs.”
“No, Gavin, tell her!” Camila demanded, her voice rising hysterically. “Tell her about your real life! Tell her who you actually love!”
I didn't yell. I didn't slap her. I simply reached into my handbag, pulled out a thick manila envelope bearing the golden seal of Vanderbilt & Sterling Financial Holdings, and tossed it onto the glass reception desk between us.
“You might want to take that box down to the lobby, Camila,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the office like a diamond cutter. “Because by 5:00 PM today, the locks on your luxury apartment at the Avalon Bay towers are going to change, too.”
Camila froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Gavin didn't tell you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “The lease on your apartment isn't in his name. It’s held under a corporate subsidiary of Blue Heron Properties. And as the managing trustee, I’ve just revoked your residency permit for violation of commercial lease morality clauses.”
Camila’s jaw dropped. She looked at Gavin, her eyes wide with betrayal. “Gavin? Tell me she’s lying! Tell me you own that apartment!”
Gavin stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish, all color completely drained from his face as the terrifying puzzle pieces finally clicked together in his mind.
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“Vanderbilt...” Gavin choked out, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. “Your father... Blue Heron... You’re the principal.”
“Surprise,” I whispered, turning on my heel. “Enjoy packing.”
