Chapter 9 - RECLAIMING HIGHLAND HILLS
One month later.
The afternoon sun was warm, shining brightly over the rolling green hills of Highland Hills. The icy storm that had battered Oakville on the night I was thrown out was a distant memory.
A black armored sedan pulled up to the grand iron gates of the Albright estate.
The iron gates—the very gates I had stood outside barefoot, bleeding, and drenched in rain six weeks ago—swung wide open, welcoming me home.
I stepped out of the car, wearing a comfortable white cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. Walking beside me was my father, using his mahogany cane only for light balance, and Arthur Vance, carrying a slim leather folder.
The front driveway was packed with three large moving vans.
A team of professional movers was systematically clearing out every piece of furniture, every clothing rack, and every mirror that Gavin and Celina had brought into the house during their brief, pathetic three-day occupation.
Standing near the front porch were two court-appointed liquidators, cataloging the items for federal public auction.
"Where do you want these, Miss Albright?" the lead mover asked, pointing to a stack of heavy boxes containing Celina's designer shoes and high-end dresses.
"Send them to the local women's shelter donation center," I said calmly. "Sell the rest at the federal asset auction and donate one hundred percent of the proceeds to the Oakville Victim Relief Fund."
"Right away, ma'am," the mover nodded, signaling his crew.
My father walked up the grand stone steps, resting his hand against the heavy oak front door he had carved thirty years ago when my mother was still alive. He looked down at me, a soft, peaceful smile on his face.
"It feels good to be home, Naomi," Ross said softly.
"It is home, Dad," I replied, stepping up beside him. "And no one will ever take it from us again."
Arthur opened his leather folder, handing me a set of heavy, solid-brass keys—the original master keys to the Highland Hills estate.
"The court has officially cleared the deed, Naomi," Arthur reported. "The estate, the land, and all surrounding properties are now held in an irrevocable trust registered solely under your name. Gavin's legal team attempted to file a stay of execution this morning, but the judge threw it out within two minutes."
I took the brass keys, feeling their cold, heavy weight in my palm.
I walked into the grand foyer. The sweet, suffocating scent of funeral flowers was gone, replaced by the fresh, crisp scent of open windows and summer air. The marble floor where Celina had thrown me into the corner of the table was clean, polished, and spotless.
I stood in the center of the foyer, looking up at the grand double staircase, remembering the night Gavin had raised a glass from the balcony and told me to see how long a princess survives without money.
I pulled my mobile phone from my pocket and dialed a secure video-call number provided by the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
The screen connected after three seconds.
Displayed on the tablet screen was Gavin Barrett.
He sat in a small, stark concrete room wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. His hair was shaved short, his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow and dark. He looked like a shell of the man who had stood in this foyer six weeks ago.
When he saw my face on the screen—sitting in the sunlit foyer of Highland Hills, surrounded by my father and Arthur—his lip trembled violently.
"Naomi..." Gavin’s voice came through the speaker, pathetic, raspy, and broken. "Please... my lawyer said you can file an affidavit of leniency... please, Naomi. It's terrible in here. I can't survive twenty-five years... I'm dying in here..."
I looked at him through the screen, feeling no anger, no hatred, and no bitterness. Only a deep, absolute sense of finality.
"You told me that night, Gavin," I said softly, my voice echoing through the grand foyer of my home, "that without my father, I was nobody."
Gavin wept quietly, pressing his forehead against the metal table in the prison visitation room.
"You were wrong," I continued, holding up the heavy brass house key so he could see it on the screen. "Without my father, I am still Ross Albright's daughter. But without my family, Gavin... you really are nobody."
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I tapped the screen, disconnecting the call forever.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, walked to the grand front doors, and opened them wide to let the warm afternoon sunlight flood every corner of the house.
