Chapter 3 - Standing at the Doorway“What is the meaning of this?” Greg demanded, puffing out his chest and stepping toward Ethan. “This is a private residential building! We’re moving into Unit 4B!”

Ethan didn't flinch. He adjusted his coat and looked down at his tablet. “Unit 4B belongs exclusively to Ms. Camille Hayes. I am the Director of Property Protection and HOA Operations for this complex. Are any of your names listed on the official resident roster?”
Vanessa pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, her face contorted in anger. “She’s my sister! She bought this condo with family money!”
That was a blatant lie. Every single cent used for the down payment came from my relentless eighty-hour work weeks auditing complex insurance fraud cases.
“The deed on file indicates a single owner,” Ethan said calmly, his voice cold and precise. “Furthermore, this building strictly prohibits unannounced commercial moving trucks blocking loading zones without a minimum seventy-two-hour written permit.”
“We’re not commercial! We rented this truck ourselves!” Greg yelled.
“Which makes it an unauthorized oversized vehicle parked on private property,” Ethan replied without raising his voice. “You have ten minutes to clear this vehicle from the property, or it will be impounded at your expense.”
My mother stepped forward, her eyes wide with indignation. “Do you know who I am? I am the owner’s mother! I authorized this!”
Ethan gave her a polite, hollow smile. “With all due respect, ma'am, unless your name is on the land title deed, your authorization has the exact legal weight of a stranger on the street.”
I watched from my balcony as Vanessa’s face turned from red to deep purple. She looked up at my fourth-floor window, spotting me standing there behind the glass holding my pillow against my stomach.
“Camille!” she shrieked, pointing an angry finger upward. “Tell these rent-a-cops to move! You are embarrassing us in front of the entire neighborhood!”
I looked down at her. I slowly shook my head, turned my back, and walked back to my living room chair.
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Down below, the sound of shouting erupted as Greg tried to push past one of the security guards toward the glass lobby door.
Within thirty seconds, metal handcuffs clicked behind Greg’s wrists as two officers held him firmly against the side of the yellow moving truck.
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