Chapter 2 - The House on Cumberland AvenueMidnight had long since passed when I finally left the restaurant and drove my car down the quiet, tree-lined streets of Cumberland Avenue. The rain had cleared, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the amber glow of the old Victorian streetlamps.
Our house—the sprawling craftsman-style home I had purchased with my own inheritance three years before Gavin and I were even married—stood bathed in warm light. Through the living room bay window, I could see shadows moving.
I parked my car three doors down beneath the heavy canopy of an oak tree, killing the headlights. I didn't want to disturb them. Not yet.
A silver Volvo—Brooke’s car—was parked right in the driveway, half-blocking the walkway. Inside, through the sheer curtains, I saw Gavin moving across the living room. He was carrying a glass of amber liquor, laughing casually as Brooke walked in from the kitchen, wearing one of my silk robes, cradling the newborn infant against her shoulder.
They looked completely at home. They had already moved in emotionally, mentally, and now, physically. They were waiting for me to break down, to pack my bags in tears, and to hand them the keys like a defeated ghost.
Instead, I sat in the dark interior of my car, unlocking the glove compartment. Beneath a stack of old registration papers and service manuals rested a heavy, leather-bound box. Inside was a collection of legal documents I had quietly gathered over the past year—original deeds, prenuptial exemption clauses, and architectural blueprints bearing my sole signature.
I opened the box, pulled out the original warranty deed for the Cumberland property, and slipped it into my handbag.
Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in months—Marcus Vance, senior partner at the state’s most ruthless real estate litigation firm. Despite sharing a last name with the disgraced obstetrician from the hospital, Marcus was a shark who despised white-collar fraud and was completely independent of our social circle.
His phone picked up on the second ring, groggy but sharp. “Vance here. Do you know what time it is?”
“Marcus, it’s Clara Bennett,” I said, my voice crisp and even. “I need you to draft a formal Notice of Immediate Eviction and Trespassing Injunction for a residential property on Cumberland Avenue. Effective immediately.”
There was a brief rustle of bedsheets on the other end of the line, and then absolute, razor-sharp attention entered Marcus’s voice. “Clara? I heard about... well, rumors travel fast in Portland. Are you sure? That’s your marital home.”
“It’s my pre-marital asset,” I corrected him smoothly. “Purchased entirely with funds from my father’s estate before Gavin and I ever exchanged vows. Gavin’s name was never added to the deed, despite his repeated requests. Furthermore, the mortgage payments have defaulted on his end, giving me absolute grounds to repossess sole occupancy.”
Marcus let out a low whistle of appreciation. “A classic oversight by an arrogant man. I’ll have the papers drawn up, notarized, and ready for process servers by 8:00 a.m. sharp. Who are we serving?”
“Gavin Kingsley and Brooke Andrews,” I replied, looking out at the glowing windows of my house. “Serve them at the house tomorrow morning while they’re eating breakfast. Make sure they know the locks are being changed by noon.”
May you like
“Consider it handled, Clara,” Marcus murmured. “Sleep well.”
I hung up, rolled down the window an inch to let the cool night air brush against my face, and smiled into the dark. The game had officially begun, and they hadn’t even realized the board was tilting beneath their feet.
