Chapter 5 - The Locksmith’s Final EncoreHeadline: He returned home to find his clothes on the lawn. But that was only the beginning.
The three-hour drive back to the city gave me all the time I needed to execute the next phase of my liberation. I didn't spend it crying. I spent it on the phone with Marcus, my bank managers, and a local security company.
By the time the SUV pulled up to my beautiful three-story brownstone, a commercial locksmith van was already parked in the driveway.
Two men were busy changing the deadbolts on the heavy oak front doors.
"Mrs. Sterling?" the head locksmith asked, wiping his brow. "We’ve already completed the side doors and the garage. Just finishing up the main entrance as requested."
"Thank you, David," I said, handing him a generous tip. "Please make sure the new keys are strictly given to me. No duplicates for anyone else."
"Understood, ma'am."
I walked inside my home. The air smelled of lavender and old wood—memories of my childhood, before Tom’s toxic family had infected every room with their greed. I walked up to the master bedroom, took out three giant industrial trash bags, and opened Tom’s closet.
I didn't destroy anything. That would be messy, and legal battles require absolute cleanliness. Instead, I carefully packed every single piece of his designer clothing, his expensive watches, his shoes, and his golf clubs into the bags.
I dragged them down to the front porch and lined them up neatly by the steps.
At 4:00 PM, my phone buzzed with an alert from my home security system. A car had pulled into the driveway.
I looked through the window. It was Judith’s sedan. Tom got out of the passenger seat, looking completely defeated, followed by his mother. Chloe wasn't with them; she had likely fled to a friend's house to escape the shame.
Tom walked up the steps, his eyes instantly landing on the black trash bags. He stopped, his shoulders dropping. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his house key, and shoved it into the lock.
It wouldn't turn.
He tried again, turning it harder, his frustration growing until he began rattling the doorknob violently.
"Sarah! Sarah, open the door!" he yelled, pounding his fist against the solid wood. "Open this damn door!"
I opened the second-story window just enough to look down at him.
"Your keys don't work here anymore, Tom," I called out.
Tom looked up, his face pale and furious. "Sarah, you can't lock me out of my own house! This is illegal! I live here!"
"Actually, Tom, this house was inherited by me before our marriage, and it's protected by our prenuptial agreement—the one your mother tried so hard to make me sign because she thought I was the one after your non-existent money," I shouted down, my voice filled with a cold irony. "You have your clothes. You have your golf clubs. I suggest you take them and go live with your mother. She loves your jokes so much, I'm sure she'll enjoy having you on her couch."
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Judith stepped out of the car, shaking her fist at me. "You ungrateful little brat! My son gave you the best years of his life! You can't just throw him out like trash!"
"Watch me," I said, and slammed the window shut.
