Chapter 4 - The Eviction on Beacon HillAt 1:00 PM, a sleek midnight-black Lincoln pulled up to the cobblestone curb outside the historic four-story brick brownstone on Chestnut Street, Beacon Hill.
Blythe Sorrell stood on the grand granite steps wearing an expensive camel-hair coat, holding a leather handbag, keys in her hand, preparing to enter the house.
Suddenly, two broad-shouldered Suffolk County Sheriffs, flanked by Rebecca Hayes and four high-ranking moving contractors, stepped out from two secondary vans, blocking the entrance.
Blythe’s face went paper-white. "What is the meaning of this?! This is my private residence!"
"Miss Blythe Sorrell," Sheriff Miller announced cleanly, holding up an emergency judicial order signed by the Suffolk County Superior Court. "Pursuant to Court Order #8841, the property title registered under Sorrell Communications LLC has been voided due to criminal forgery. You have fifteen minutes to vacate the premises."
"This is absurd!" Blythe shrieked, reaching frantically for her phone to call Dorian. "Dorian Kincaid owns this house! He gave it to me!"
"Dorian Kincaid doesn't own a single brick of this house, Miss Sorrell," my voice echoed cleanly from the sidewalk.
I stepped out from the rear of the Lincoln wearing an ivory wool coat, my dark hair blowing gently in the autumn wind, my hazel eyes holding her with a cold, absolute disdain that made her fingers freeze over her phone screen.
Blythe stared at me, her posture collapsing, her arrogant confidence shattering into a hundred pathetic pieces. "Audra..."
"It’s Mrs. Kincaid to you," I corrected softly, taking three deliberate steps up the granite stairs until I stood directly in front of her. "And as of two minutes ago... your employment as Communications Director at Kincaid Global has been terminated by the executive board."
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"You can't do that!" Blythe gasped, tears cutting through her makeup. "Dorian will destroy you for this!"
"Dorian is currently sitting in his office in Providence watching his corporate accounts get frozen by federal receivers, Blythe," I said deadpan. "You have ten minutes to get your clothes out of my mother's house before the movers throw them into the alley."
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