Chapter 2 - The Midnight Eviction
The chaos that followed the arrests was a masterpiece of poetic justice. Vivian screamed, cried, and physically tried to block the officers from taking her golden boy out into the cold night. She was immediately threatened with an obstruction of justice charge, which finally forced her to back down, sobbing dramatically onto the rented white linen sofa.
While the police loaded my husband and his cousins into the back of the cruisers, a female officer stayed behind while I finished packing my bags. As I zipped up my Louis Vuitton luggage and walked back down the grand staircase, Preston’s father, Arthur, stood up. His face was a mask of purple, indignant rage.
“You are destroying this family, Evelyn! Over a prank!” Arthur bellowed, pointing a shaking finger at me. “How are we supposed to get them out of lockup tonight? We don't have fifty thousand dollars in liquid bail money sitting in our checking accounts!”
“That sounds like a severe liquidity problem for your family, Arthur,” I said, my tone completely devoid of empathy. “But since we are on the topic of finances, there is something you all need to know.”
I pulled out my phone and opened the luxury property management portal. I had paid eighty-five thousand dollars for a one-week rental of this beachfront estate. “Since I am the sole individual on the rental agreement, and my corporate American Express is on file for damages, I am officially terminating the reservation due to a severe domestic violence incident on the premises. The management company has already been notified. You have exactly forty-five minutes to vacate the property before private security arrives to physically remove you for trespassing.”
Vivian gasped, clutching her pearls so hard the string looked ready to snap. “It’s past midnight! We flew here! We don’t have rental cars because you hired the black car services! Where are we supposed to go?”
“You can walk to the highway and call a taxi. You can find a cheap motel. I genuinely do not care,” I replied, slipping my phone into my designer coat. “And just so we are completely, legally clear: I have just logged into my banking app. I have transferred every cent of my income from our joint accounts into a private, secure trust. I’ve frozen the secondary credit cards you all so happily use to fund your ‘country club lunches.’ The gravy train has officially derailed, Vivian.”
“You can't do that! You owe us!” she shrieked, stepping toward me with raised hands, her face twisted in absolute malice.
The female police officer stepped firmly between us, her hand resting on her taser. “Ma'am, I strongly suggest you start packing your bags.”
I walked out the front door, got into the private SUV I had reserved for myself, and drove away into the night. I checked into a luxury suite at a five-star hotel in the city, ordered a pot of hot chamomile tea, and slept for ten uninterrupted hours.
By Monday morning, the fallout was catastrophic. Preston and his cousins had spent the entire weekend rotting in the freezing county jail because no one in his "old money" family actually had the liquid cash to post their bail. Their wealth was tied up in mortgaged properties and generational trusts they couldn't touch. My tech startup, on the other hand, had recently been valued at two hundred million dollars. For seven years, Preston had downplayed my career in public, while simultaneously relying entirely on my massive paycheck to fund the lavish lifestyle that kept his family relevant.
When Preston finally used his one phone call, he didn't call me. He called his mother. And because I had canceled the cellular family plan I paid for on Sunday morning, her phone went straight to a disconnected tone.
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I spent Monday morning in the sleek, glass-walled office of Elena Rostova, the most ruthless, high-profile divorce attorney in New York. I laid out the financial records, the police report, and a digital copy of the video that Brooks had so stupidly recorded.
Elena looked at the footage, steepled her fingers, and smiled a predatory, terrifying smile. “Evelyn, not only are we going to secure a permanent restraining order by lunchtime, but we are going to leave him with absolutely nothing. He dug his own grave. We're just going to pour the concrete.”
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