Chapter 4 - The Retaliation
True to his miserable, vindictive nature, Derek couldn't let it go.
Within forty-eight hours of being humiliated in front of his entire family, Derek launched his counter-attack—not with his fists, because he was far too cowardly to face me in a fair fight again, but through the weaponized bureaucracy of the suburban petty bourgeoisie.
It started on Tuesday morning.
I was sitting at my home office desk, sipping my coffee and finalizing a branding package for a local boutique, when my phone buzzed incessantly against the mousepad. It was an email notification from the local municipal zoning board, followed immediately by a text message from our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gable.
“Claire, honey, there are two city inspectors walking around your backyard with clipboards right now. They said someone filed an anonymous complaint about illegal commercial activity and zoning violations at your residence.”
My fingers froze over the keyboard.
I stood up, walked over to the front window, and parted the blinds. Sure enough, two men in high-visibility vests and clipboard-toting seriousness were pacing around our side gate, peering into our backyard and taking flash photographs of my quiet, peaceful garden patio.
Ten minutes later, Ryan called me, his voice tight with controlled fury.
“Claire, you’re not going to believe this,” Ryan said without preamble. “I just got a call from my firm’s managing partner. Someone sent an anonymous packet to my office HR department accusing me of creating a hostile work environment and claiming my wife runs an illegal, unregistered underground fighting ring out of our garage.”
I blinked, genuinely stunned by the sheer stupidity and petty escalation of the move. “An underground fighting ring? Out of our suburban garage?”
“I know!” Ryan sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “HR laughed it off after five minutes because it’s completely absurd—I’m an accountant, for crying out loud, I audit spreadsheets, I don't run a fight club. But the harassment is obvious. It’s Derek. He’s throwing everything he can think of at us to see what sticks.”
“He’s panicking,” I said, my voice hardening. “His ego is so fragile that losing a wrestling match to a woman in a sundress has broken his entire identity. He’s trying to ruin our lives because he’s embarrassed.”
“Well, his little crusade is about to hit a brick wall,” Ryan muttered. “I’m calling corporate legal to issue a formal cease-and-desist for harassment and defamation. And as for the zoning inspectors—let them look. We’re fully permitted for a home office.”
By Wednesday afternoon, the zoning inspectors had packed up their clipboards, apologized for wasting our time, and dismissed the anonymous complaint as unfounded. The municipal paperwork was airtight; my graphic design business was fully legal, tax-paying, and entirely above board.
Derek’s first petty strike had completely failed.
But Derek wasn't known for his intelligence; he was known for his stubborn, pig-headed escalation.
On Thursday evening, as Ryan and I were sitting down to a quiet dinner of homemade lasagna, a violent, aggressive pounding echoed against our front door. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor or a delivery driver; it was the heavy, rhythmic thumping of someone trying to break the wood.
I stood up immediately, but Ryan held up a hand.
“Stay here. Let me get it,” Ryan said, his jaw set.
He walked down the hallway and yanked the front door open.
Standing on our porch wasn't a city inspector or a courier. It was Derek. He had traded his barbecue shorts for a tight designer polo shirt, and his face was twisted into an ugly, triumphant sneer. Behind him in the driveway sat his massive pickup truck, its engine idling loudly.
“Well, look who’s hiding behind locked doors!” Derek barked, loud enough to wake the entire cul-de-sac. He tried to push past Ryan into the foyer, but Ryan planted his feet firmly in the doorway, blocking his entry.
“Get off my property, Derek,” Ryan said coldly.
“Your property?” Derek laughed harshly, pointing a thick finger at Ryan’s chest. “You think you're a big man now, don't you? You and your psycho wife think you can humiliate me in front of the family and get away with it? I’ve been talking to mom, and guess what? We’re cutting you out of the family trust. Every dime of inheritance grandma left is going to me and Marissa. You two get nothing!”
Ryan didn't even blink. He let out a quiet, unimpressed sigh. “Derek, neither of us gives a damn about grandma’s trust fund. Now get off my porch before I call the police for trespassing and harassment.”
“You’re gonna beg!” Derek shouted, his face turning red as he realized his threats weren't landing. He stepped closer, raising his voice to a scream. “You think you’re untouchable? I’m going to make sure every client your firm has knows what kind of trash you married! I’m going to ruin you!”
I walked quietly down the hallway behind Ryan, my footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. I stepped up beside my husband, looking out at my brother-in-law with an expression of profound, chilling boredom.
Derek stopped shouting mid-sentence. His eyes darted nervously to my hands, instinctively taking a half-step backward down the porch steps.
“You finished?” I asked softly.
Derek swallowed hard, his bravado wavering for a fraction of a second before his anger flared back up. “This isn't over, Claire! You haven't seen the last of me!”
“Actually, Derek,” I said, stepping past Ryan onto the porch, my voice carrying a quiet, lethal finality, “you have seen the last of us. Because the next time you step foot on this property, or harass my husband at his office, I’m not going to throw you into a patio table.”
Derek’s eyes widened slightly. “What... what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to file a permanent restraining order,” I replied smoothly, stepping right to the edge of the top step, towering over him despite my smaller stature. “And if you violate it, I’m going to remind your ribs what a professional mixed martial artist does when someone forgets their manners. Do we understand each other?”
Derek stared at me for three long seconds. The memory of the patio deck, the wind rushing out of his lungs, and the terrifying coldness in my eyes flashed across his mind.
Without another word, Derek turned on his heel, stumbled slightly down the steps, hurried to his truck, and peeled out of our driveway in a cloud of rubber smoke.
Ryan looked down at me, a proud, affectionate grin spreading across his face. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Ryan whispered.
May you like
“You already did,” I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder. “You married me.”
Little did we know, Derek’s childish temper tantrum was about to trigger a much larger earthquake within the Carter family—one that Diane and the rest of the relatives wouldn't be able to ignore.
