Chapter 3 - THE EVICTION AT DAWNBy 1:00 AM, the last luxurious BMW and Mercedes had sped away from the estate, the high-society guests thoroughly confused and offended by the abrupt cancellation of Gertrude’s lavish gala.

The main mansion was pitch black, except for the glittering crystal chandeliers in the grand foyer.

I didn't bring Sarah and Jamie into that main house that night. It was contaminated by the spirits of my mother and sister. Instead, I carried Jamie to a luxury hotel downtown, booked the Presidential Suite, and ordered every single item on the room service menu—fresh roasted chicken, warm soup, fresh fruits, handmade pasta, and hot chocolate.

Watching Jamie eat his first real meal in years—watching his tiny hands hold a silver fork while tears of joy welled in his eyes—was both the most beautiful and heartbreaking moment of my life. Sarah ate slowly, her body so unaccustomed to real nourishment that she could barely keep it down at first. I sat beside them, holding Sarah’s hand, kissing her knuckles, promising over and over that the bad dream was over.

By 6:00 AM, while the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon of Bayside Heights, I stood up.

"Where are you going?" Sarah asked nervously, clutching the hotel bedsheets.

"To clean garbage out of our house," I replied smoothly.

I called my attorney, Arthur Vance (no relation, but the sharpest corporate lawyer in the state), along with a team of six heavily armed private security guards and a moving crew with a flatbed industrial dump truck.

At 7:00 AM sharp, three black SUVs and a massive dump truck pulled up to the gates of #884 Bayside Heights Estate.

I didn't knock.

I used my master key to unlock the heavy iron gates and marched up the marble steps. I slapped my master security card onto the electronic front door scanner.

BEEP. ACCESS GRANTED.

The heavy front doors swung open. Inside, the house was a mess of half-empty crystal glasses, spilled wine, and discarded party favors. Up on the second-floor balcony, Gertrude appeared in her silk robe, her hair in rollers, holding a cup of coffee. Prudence and Marcus stumbled out of their respective master bedrooms, rubbing their eyes.

"Ethan?" Gertrude snapped, trying to regain her dominant matriarch tone. "What is the meaning of this noise at seven in the morning?! We were sleeping!"

"Your lease on my life has expired," I said calmly, motioning to the six tall, broad-shouldered security guards standing behind me. "Gentlemen, clear the house."

Prudence screamed as two security officers marched up the stairs. "Get your filthy hands off me! Do you know who I am?! I am engaged to Julian Sterling!"

"Not anymore, you're not," I called up to her. "Because by noon today, Julian's father will receive a detailed dossier of everything that happened in that back kitchen."

"Ethan, stop this foolishness!" Gertrude yelled, descending the grand staircase, her face red with fury. "I am your MOTHER! I gave you life! You owe me everything!"

"You gave me life, Gertrude," I said, stepping right up to her face, my voice dripping with ice. "And for five years, I paid you $1,800 a month to take care of my family. That’s $108,000 in cash. Plus the $2 million I wired to build this house. Where did the money go, Gertrude?"

Gertrude stammered, looking away. "Expenses! Maintenance! Taxes!"

"No," Arthur, my lawyer, stepped forward, pulling a thick leather binder from his briefcase. "According to bank records subpoenaed last night via emergency court injunction, Mrs. Gertrude Vance opened four off-shore accounts in the Cayman Islands. She diverted $1,500 of the monthly allowance into her personal shopping account and used the remaining funds to finance Miss Prudence’s failed fashion line and Mr. Marcus’s gambling debts in Atlantic City."

Marcus froze on the staircase, his face turning pale. "Hey! That was an investment!"

"It was grand larceny," Arthur corrected coldly. "And elder/child neglect. The state prosecutor is already reviewing the file."

"Throw their things out," I ordered the movers.

"Wait! NO!" Prudence shrieked as two movers entered her master bedroom and began dumping her rack of $5,000 designer dresses directly into heavy-duty plastic trash bags. "My Chanel! My Hermès bags! Stop them!"

"Everything in this house was bought with my money," I reminded her. "Which means everything in this house belongs to me. You get the clothes you are currently wearing. Nothing else."

"You can't do this!" Gertrude screamed, falling to her knees, grasping at my trousers. "Ethan! My son! Please! Where are we supposed to go?!"

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Arthur Sterling tapped his leather-wrapped fingers against the steering...

The sound hung in the air, rhythmic and deliberate—tap, tap, tap—reverbe...

The wind on the balcony was sharp, carrying the bitter, fish-heavy tang...

I looked down at the woman who had carried me for nine months, then remembered my six-year-old son eating sour rice in the dark.

"There's a lovely side entrance near the back service kitchen," I said with a terrifyingly calm smile. "It smells like damp concrete and old grease. You three can live back there. Let's see how long you survive."