Chapter 7 - The Eviction Notice
By late afternoon, the golden sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the manicured lawns of the city's most exclusive high-rise district.
David stood on the private balcony of his penthouse loft, staring down at the street below. The luxury sports cars parked in his assigned stalls had already been repossessed by the leasing agency an hour prior. Now, a black towing truck was hitching up his personal sedan—the last remaining symbol of his wealth.
The heavy oak door of the penthouse swung open behind him.
David spun around, expecting a bill collector or a process server. Instead, two men in sharp gray suits stepped into the living room, accompanied by the building’s property manager, a nervous-looking man holding a clipboard.
"Mr. Caldwell?" the lead man in the gray suit asked, his voice completely devoid of emotion. He flashed an identification badge. "I’m Marcus Vance, corporate counsel for Eternity Couture Asset Management. You have officially been served with an eviction notice and a writ of possession for this property."
"Eviction?" David scoffed, stepping forward, trying desperately to salvage a shred of his old arrogance, though his voice shook. "You can't evict me! I own this building through the Caldwell-Vance holding trust!"
Marcus smiled coldly, pulling a thick folder from his briefcase and tossing it onto the glass coffee table. "Not anymore, Mr. Caldwell. The trust was dissolved at noon under a federal summary judgment. This building, along with every piece of furniture, artwork, and clothing inside it, now belongs to Ms. Emily Vance."
"Vance?" David choked out. "Her maiden name was Miller! She wasn't a Vance!"
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"Her father was Dr. Richard Vance, the brilliant geneticist whose intellectual property your family stole twenty-five years ago," Marcus corrected sharply. "Ms. Vance simply reclaimed what was always rightfully hers. You have forty-five minutes to pack your personal belongings into a single suitcase. Everything else stays."
Before David could open his mouth to protest, the property manager stepped forward, holding out a cardboard box. "Sir... I'd start packing if I were you. The marshals are downstairs."
