Chapter 4 - Eviction NoticeBy 4:30 PM that afternoon, the grand lobby of the luxury high-rise on Michigan Avenue was buzzing with hushed whispers and curious glances from doormen and residents alike.
Two building security guards stood rigidly by the elevator banks, watching as two large cardboard boxes containing expensive suits, Italian leather shoes, and various designer accessories were dumped unceremoniously right outside the glass revolving doors onto the cold concrete sidewalk.
Grant stood beside the boxes, his face burning with humiliation as evening commuters streamed past him, casting sideways glances at the disgraced executive. His leased BMW had already been remotely immobilized by fleet management, and his credit cards had all been declined within minutes of the federal injunction filing.
Beside him, pacing back and forth in her designer heels, was Vanessa Vale. Her makeup was slightly smeared, her expression furious and hysterical.
“This is insane!” Vanessa shrieked, jabbing her finger toward the security guards. “Do you know who I am?! You can’t just throw my things out on the street! I had five thousand dollars worth of cosmetics in that bathroom!”
“Ma’am, step away from the revolving doors,” the head security guard said flatly, refusing to look her in the eye. “Management has strict orders from Hartwell Holdings. You are no longer authorized tenants.”
Grant buried his face in his hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The reality of his complete and total ruin was finally sinking in. In less than twenty-four hours, he had gone from a self-proclaimed king of corporate real estate to a homeless, broke, criminal defendant facing a decade in federal prison.
Across the street, parked in the tinted rear of a black armored SUV, I watched the scene through the bulletproof window.
In the backseat beside me, Lily sat comfortably in a brand-new yellow dress—the very same little yellow dress she had begged to wear when I came home. Her hair was tied back with bright purple butterfly clips, and she was happily coloring in a massive coloring book with a new set of markers I had bought her earlier that afternoon.
She looked up, her bright brown eyes free of any shadows, and smiled at me.
“Mommy, look,” she said, holding up a drawing of a smiling family standing in front of a sunny house. “We’re home.”
I smiled back, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close against my side. “Yes, sweetheart,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “We’re home.”
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My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text message from my father: “Federal prosecutors have accepted all charges. Bail denied due to flight risk. The cleanup is complete, Olivia.”
I locked the screen and slid the phone away.
