Chapter 3 - The Midnight EvictionBy midnight, the Palm Beach mansion was silent.
The frantic media circus had moved its focus from the museum to the gates of our estate, where news vans were already broadcasting live feeds of the impending asset seizure. Inside, however, the grand halls echoed only with the crisp, professional steps of a specialized property management crew.
I stood in the master kitchen, wearing my black silk robe, holding a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.
The kitchen counters were spotless. Not a single dish sat in the sink.
A sharp knock echoed at the front mahogany doors.
I didn't need to check the security monitor to know who it was. The local precinct had released Grant and Mavis on their own recognizance pending formal arraignment—primarily because the federal prosecutor wanted their cooperation in unraveling the offshore accounts Delaney had managed.
They had rushed straight back to the mansion, expecting sanctuary. Expecting to pack their designer clothes, grab their hidden cash stashes, and plan a quick escape to a non-extradition country.
Instead, they found the biometric locks overridden.
The heavy front door swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and Grant, Mavis, and Delaney stumbled into the grand foyer, soaked from a sudden coastal downpour.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Mavis shrieked, clutching her damp mink coat around her shoulders. "Open this door immediately! I will have you all arrested!"
I stepped out from the arched hallway into the foyer, leaning against the polished banister of the grand staircase.
Grant stopped dead in his tracks. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his tuxedo jacket wrinkled and stained with champagne and mud.
"Seraphina," he breathed, hope flickering desperately in his eyes. "Thank God. You're still here. Look, the police made a mistake, the board is confused—we need to get inside, get our passports, and sort this out before—"
"Before what, Grant?" I interrupted, taking a slow sip of my tea. "Before the bank forecloses on a house they never owned? Or before the federal marshals freeze your remaining credit cards?"
"You can't lock us out!" Mavis screeched, hobbling forward past her son. "This is our home! We bought the art! We curated this lifestyle!"
"You didn't curate anything, Mavis," a deep, resonant voice echoed from behind me.
My father descended the stairs, stepping into the light of the crystal chandelier. He held a thick stack of legal documents tied with a red ribbon.
May you like
Grant stared at my father as if he were looking at a ghost. "Julian... you're... you're supposed to be dead."
"Reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated," my father smiled thinly. "Mostly because it was an exceptionally effective way to test which men possessed genuine character and which ones were opportunistic parasites preying on my granddaughter."
