Chapter 3 - The Eviction
While Graham stood frozen in the corporate boardroom of Harrington Luxe, his world collapsing into ash, his mother was enjoying a quiet morning at the Crestview estate.
Vivian Harrington was wrapped in her favorite silk robe, lounging on the velvet sofa in the sunroom while sipping an espresso. She was admiring her fresh manicure, feeling entirely pleased with herself. The annoyance of Evelyn and those noisy, unwanted babies was finally gone. Today, she planned to call her interior designer to remodel the nursery into a luxury dressing room for her designer gowns.
Suddenly, the grand front doors of the mansion were pushed open with a heavy, echoey thud.
Vivian frowned, setting her espresso cup down with a sharp clink. "Graham? Is that you? Why are you back so early?"
She walked out into the grand foyer, expecting to see her son. Instead, she was met with a terrifying scene.
Six men in sharp black suits, accompanied by two uniformed sheriff’s deputies, were marching into the marble hallway. Behind them came a crew of movers wearing heavy work overalls, carrying large wooden crates and industrial wrapping equipment.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Vivian shrieked, her voice echoing up the grand staircase. "Who allowed you people into my home? Security! Call security immediately!"
One of the deputies stepped forward, pulling a stamped, official legal document from a yellow folder. "Vivian Harrington?"
"Yes! I am Mrs. Vivian Harrington! And you are trespassing on private property! I will have every single one of you fired and thrown in jail!"
"Ma'am, I am serving you with an emergency order of immediate eviction and asset seizure," the deputy said calmly, handing her the papers. "This property is owned by Vale Prime Estates, a subsidiary of Vale International. The owner has terminated your license to occupy the premises effective immediately."
Vivian looked at the paper, her eyes scanning the official court seals and signatures. Her hands began to shake violently. "This... this is an error! My son owns this house! The Harringtons have lived here for three years!"
"Your son never owned this house, Mrs. Harrington," a smooth, cultured voice spoke from the open doorway.
Vivian looked up. Marcus stepped into the foyer, his polished shoes clicking loudly against the marble floor. He looked at her with a calm, clinical disgust.
"This property was purchased by Ms. Evelyn Vale three years ago," Marcus explained, taking a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket. "She permitted you and your son to reside here rent-free out of respect for her marriage. However, as of six o'clock this morning, the owner has exercised her right to terminate all occupancy permissions due to severe domestic misconduct and physical endangerment of minors."
"Evelyn?!" Vivian spat, her face twisting into a hideous mask of rage and disbelief. "That poor little rat? She doesn't own anything! She doesn't have a dime! She’s a homeless seamstress!"
"Ms. Vale’s net worth is eight billion dollars, Mrs. Harrington," Marcus corrected her, his tone as sharp as a razor. "And right now, every item in this house is being audited."
Marcus gestured to the movers. "Begin."
"Stop! Don't touch that!" Vivian screamed as two movers grabbed a crystal vase from a side table. "That’s an antique! That belongs to me!"
"Do you have a receipt proving you purchased it with your personal, non-corporate funds?" Marcus asked coldly. "Because according to our forensic audit, every piece of furniture, every painting, and every decorative item in this house was purchased using funds drawn directly from a corporate credit line issued to Harrington Luxe—a credit line that has now been defaulted upon."
"You can't do this!" Vivian wept, clutching her silk robe around herself as workers began carrying out sofas, rugs, and floor lamps. "My clothes! My jewelry!"
"Your personal clothing will be placed in bags and left on the driveway," Marcus informed her flatly. "Your jewelry, however, was acquired through the corporate account. It is currently locked under an injunction until the corporate fraud investigation concludes."
"Fraud?!" Vivian choked out, her knees giving way. She sank to her knees on the cold marble floor—the very same floor where she had stood twelve hours earlier, watching me get shoved into the freezing snow.
"Yes, Mrs. Harrington," Marcus said, looking down at her. "Fraud. Now, please step outside. The locks are being changed immediately."
Two deputies stepped forward, taking Vivian firmly by the arms and hoisting her to her feet. They escorted her out the front doors, her silk slippers dragging against the stone steps.
As she was pushed past the heavy iron gates, she saw three large moving vans parked along the curb, along with a flatbed tow truck. The tow truck was currently hoisting Graham’s prized Italian sports car onto its bed.
May you like
"No! Stop!" Vivian shrieked, standing in her robe on the public sidewalk, her hair messy and unstyled. "Help! Somebody help me!"
Neighbors began to peek through their curtains and step out onto their balconies, whispering and taking photos with their smartphones. The aristocratic, proud Vivian Harrington—the woman who had spent years looking down on everyone in the neighborhood—was currently standing on the street in her nightwear, surrounded by plastic garbage bags filled with her clothes, watching her entire life get towed away.
