Chapter 4 - The Eviction(1800 words)
By Wednesday afternoon, the demolition of Derek Hartwell’s life was proceeding precisely on schedule.
After being bodily escorted out of his office by Sterling security guards, Derek had fled to the only place he thought he could find refuge: the four-bedroom suburban home in Newton that he had spent three years bragging about to his colleagues.
He drove his leased BMW up the circular driveway, slammed the car door, and jogged up the front steps. He jammed his house key into the deadbolt and turned it.
Click.
The lock didn't turn. The deadbolt had been changed.
“What the hell?” Derek muttered, pounding his fist against the mahogany door. “Carrie! Open up! I know you’re in there!”
The door swung open smoothly.
Derek let out a breath of relief, stepping forward. But it wasn't Carrie standing in the foyer.
It was a tall, burly moving specialist wearing a blue jumpsuit, holding a clipboard. Behind him, three other movers were systematically packing up the hallway console table, boxing up framed family photos, silver candlesticks, and designer art books.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?!” Derek screamed, grabbing the mover by the collar of his jumpsuit.
The mover didn't even blink. He reached up, casually peeled Derek’s fingers off his collar, and shoved him backward onto the porch mat.
“Eviction and inventory execution, pal,” the mover said, checking his clipboard. “Order of the court, backed by Sterling Global Asset Management. All contents of this property are being cataloged and removed for liquidation to satisfy outstanding marital debt judgments.”
“This is my house!” Derek roared, scrambling to his feet. “I signed the mortgage! I pay the property taxes!”
“Negative, Mr. Hartwell,” a cool, smooth voice chimed from the living room.
Tiffany Lawson stepped into the foyer.
She looked a wreck. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, she wore an oversized grey hoodie, and her eyes were rimmed with red from hours of crying. She had nowhere to go; her own apartment lease had been terminated after her landlord saw her face plastered across local news broadcasts next to headlines about corporate fraud and public scandal.
“What are you doing here?” Derek snapped, glaring at his mistress as if she were a piece of trash stuck to his shoe. “You were supposed to wait for me at the hotel!”
“The hotel threw me out two hours ago because my credit card declined!” Tiffany shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. “They said all your accounts are frozen! They wouldn't even let me keep my makeup bag!”
“Quiet down, both of you,” the mover interrupted, pointing a pen at them. “You’ve got twenty minutes to grab whatever personal toiletries fit into a plastic grocery bag. After that, the locks are being re-keyed, and the property is being locked down.”
Derek stared at Tiffany in absolute horror. The dream life they had planned—the Miami penthouse, the high-society parties, the easy wealth—had turned into a nightmare of eviction notices and grocery-bag luggage.
“This is your fault,” Derek hissed, lunging toward Tiffany. “If you hadn't shown up at the gala like a lunatic and ripped her dress—!”
“Me?!” Tiffany screamed, slapping his chest with both hands. “You told me she was a charity case who didn't matter! You told me you were going to divorce her anyway! You lied to me about everything—you’re broke! You’re a total fraud!”
“Shut up! Both of you!”
A sleek black Maybach rolled up to the curb of the driveway.
The rear door opened, and Jonathan Sterling stepped out, followed by Carrie.
Carrie wore a cream maternity coat, dark sunglasses, and immaculate leather boots. She didn't look angry; she looked profoundly bored, the way a person looks when they are watching an exterminator clear out a minor rodent problem.
Derek and Tiffany froze. They turned slowly to look at the billionaire father and daughter walking up the driveway.
“Carrie...” Derek breathed, his voice dropping into a pathetic, wheezing whine. He took two steps forward, dropping to his knees on the welcome mat right in front of her boots. “Carrie, please. I was stupid. I was weak. Vanessa... she trapped me, she seduced me, but I love you. We have a history. We have a life together. Think of the baby... think of our family.”
Carrie looked down at him. She slowly removed her dark sunglasses, revealing eyes as cold and hard as North Atlantic ice.
“You wanted a proper heir, Derek,” Carrie said, her voice carrying a quiet, devastating finality. “You wanted a woman who would bow down to your mother, swallow your insults, and fund your corporate ambitions while you played house with your office manager.”
She gestured toward the open front door, where movers were carrying out a flat-screen television.
“Instead, you got a Sterling. And now, you’re getting exactly what you earned.”
“Carrie, please!” Derek sobbed, reaching out to grab the hem of her coat.
A security guard stepped forward, planting his heavy boot between Derek’s hands and the fabric of her coat, forcing him back onto the concrete.
Jonathan Sterling stepped up beside his daughter, looking down at the groveling man with absolute disgust.
“Get off my property, Hartwell,” Jonathan said quietly. “And if you ever come within five hundred yards of my daughter or my grandchild again, I won’t just sue you into bankruptcy. I’ll make sure you spend the next twenty years breaking rocks in a federal penitentiary where you belong.”
May you like
Carrie turned her back on them, walking back toward the Maybach without another word.
As the car door clicked shut, sealing her inside the quiet, climate-controlled luxury of her real world, Derek Hartwell sat weeping on his own front porch, clutching a single plastic grocery bag filled with cheap deodorant and spare socks, while his mistress screamed obscenities into the autumn wind.
