Chapter 7 - MIDNIGHT AT THE ESTATEThe Whitmore family estate in Winnetka looked like a mausoleum under the pale moonlight.
The sprawling brick mansion, once the site of countless elite garden parties and glittering holiday galas, sat dark and menacing behind towering iron security gates. The smart-home exterior lights flickered lazily, humming in the cold autumn air.
Using my old master-override code—a childhood sequence my father had foolishly never changed, believing no one would ever dare return uninvited—I punched the numbers into the keypad.
Click.
The heavy iron gates swung open.
I parked my sedan in the grand circular driveway, grabbed my laptop bag from the passenger seat, and walked up the front steps. The heavy oak front door unlocked with a satisfying click.
Inside, the house smelled of old money, expensive leather polish, and sudden, suffocating panic.
My parents hadn't gone to a hotel after the wedding disaster. They had fled straight back to the stronghold, desperately trying to shred documents, wipe hard drives, and pack their bags before the federal hammer fell.
As I walked quietly down the polished mahogany hallway toward my father’s private study, I heard raised voices echoing from behind the heavy double doors.
"...we are ruined, Arthur! Absolutely ruined!" my mother shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "The federal marshals are going to seize this house! They're going to take our cars, our art collection, our pensions! Everything we spent forty years building, gone because of that stupid boy!"
"Shut up, Martha!" my father roared back, slamming his fist onto a wooden desk. "If you hadn't coddled him every single second of his life—if you hadn't insisted we bail him out of every illegal scheme he touched—we wouldn't be in this position!"
"Oh, don't you dare put this on me!" my mother sobbed loudly. "You loved him just as much as I did! He was our legacy!"
I pushed the study door open.
It didn't creak. It swung open smoothly, revealing the chaos within.
My father’s desk was buried under piles of shredded paper, tax documents, and international bank statements. My mother was standing near the fireplace, frantically tossing folders into the blazing flames.
They both froze, turning around to stare at me as if I were a ghost risen from the grave.
"Evelyn," my father breathed, his face draining of all color. He grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk for support. "What... what are you doing here?"
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I stepped fully into the study, pulling a small USB drive from my pocket and holding it up so they could see it clearly under the chandelier light.
"I'm here," I said, my voice ice-cold, "to collect the rent."
