Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guest at the Estate
By late afternoon, desperation had driven Roland to do something he swore he would never do—beg.
He couldn't go back to his penthouse apartment downtown; the building management had already changed the locks on his private elevator access. He couldn't go to Celeste’s townhouse; she had blocked his number within ten minutes of their phone call.
There was only one place left. Hale House.
He drove his car—a leased luxury sedan that miraculously hadn't been repossessed yet—up the winding private driveway of the estate. The rain had completely stopped, leaving the manicured lawns sparkling in the afternoon sun.
When he reached the wrought-iron security gates, he expected them to swing open automatically as they always had. Instead, they remained firmly shut.
Roland pulled up to the call box and pressed the intercom button.
A static hiss crackled through the speaker, followed by Tomas’s calm, gravelly voice. "Hale House security. State your business."
"Tomas, it’s Roland," Roland said, trying to keep his voice steady and commanding. "Open the gates."
"I’m sorry, Mr. Hale," Tomas replied smoothly. "My instructions are explicit. You are not authorized to enter the premises."
"I am the master of this house!" Roland shouted, pressing his face close to the speaker box. "Open these gates right now, or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing and unlawful confinement of private property!"
"You're welcome to call the police, sir," Tomas said, entirely unfazed. "In fact, I can patch you through to the local precinct right now. Though, given the embezzlement charges currently being processed by the state prosecutor's office regarding Vanguard Holdings, I’m not entirely sure the police would be eager to assist you with a domestic dispute."
Roland froze. The color drained from his face. "You... you know about that?"
"Mrs. Hale shares everything with her staff," Tomas said coolly. "Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Hale."
Click. The intercom went dead.
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Roland stared at the thick iron bars of the gate in absolute disbelief. He wasn't just locked out of his boardroom; he was exiled from his own home.
Defeated, humiliated, and utterly exhausted, Roland shifted the car into reverse, backed down the narrow driveway, and headed toward the one place he had hoped he would never have to visit—a dreary, anonymous corporate hotel near the highway where he could use his last remaining hidden credit card to rent a room no bigger than a walk-in closet.
