Chapter 3 - The Greenwich Lockdown
Before Everett could scream a denial, his phone rang again. It was a direct line from the household manager at their sprawling, multi-million-dollar estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Everett snatched the phone to his ear, his voice cracking. "Mrs. Higgins? What is going on? Tell me the security system in the east wing hasn't locked up—"
"Mr. Vance," Mrs. Higgins's voice came through the speaker, tight, panicked, and devoid of its usual subservient warmth. "You need to get home right now. Or... well, I suppose you can't. A convoy of three armored transport vehicles just pulled through the wrought-iron gates. Men in tactical gear have surrounded the perimeter. They’ve frozen the smart-home locks, revoked all of our biometric access codes, and they’re demanding that everyone vacate the premises within the hour."
"Vacate?!" Everett roared, his face turning a furious shade of purple. "That’s my house! I bought those custom Italian marble floors! I had the wine cellar built specifically for my private vintage collection! By whose authority?!"
"By the authority of the sole deed-holder," Mrs. Higgins replied flatly. "And according to the legal papers delivered to my desk by a courier five minutes ago... the property is registered entirely in Madam Evelyn Hart’s maiden name."
The silence in the Manhattan ballroom was now absolute. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning units high above.
Madison clung to Everett’s arm, her artificial nails digging so hard into his sleeve that the fabric tore. "Everett, make them stop! What is she talking about? Tell me this is some kind of sick joke for the tabloids!"
Everett couldn't answer. He stared at Evelyn as if looking at a ghost—or worse, a god he had foolishly forgotten to worship. The woman he had degraded, the woman he had publicly humiliated just twenty minutes ago, was the invisible titan who had held his leash the entire time. He hadn't built an empire; he had merely been the well-paid manager of a corporation she allowed him to pilot.
"My cars," Everett whispered, the horror finally settling into his bones. "My garage..."
"Already repossessed," Arthur Pendelton supplied helpfully, checking his vintage Patek Philippe watch. "The matte-black Lamborghini Aventador, the custom Rolls-Royce Phantom, and your personal Ferrari SF90 were loaded onto flatbed trailers precisely three minutes ago. They are currently en route to a secure corporate warehouse in New Jersey. Your corporate fuel cards have been deactivated, and your personal credit cards linked to the business accounts have already declined."
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Patricia let out a high-pitched shriek, clutching her pearls as if they might vanish into thin air. "You can’t do this! We are family! We gave you a home! We let you sit at our table!"
"You let me sit at your table while you treated me like a domestic servant," Evelyn said, stepping forward. Every step she took forced Everett and his mother to retreat. "You humiliated me in public, Everett. You thought cutting off my dignity would make you feel tall. Let’s see how tall you stand when you’re standing in the gutter."
