Chapter 4 - The Black Friday Eviction
At ten o’clock on Black Friday morning, Mark Peterson pulled his leased Mercedes sedan into the underground garage of the high-rise luxury tower on Lake Shore Drive.
He had spent the night sleeping on the guest sofa at his parents' brownstone, nursing a hangover and listening to his mother lecture him about how spineless he had been for letting his "peasant wife" raise her hand against Megan. Megan had theatrically spent the night with an ice pack taped to her jaw, dramatically threatening lawsuits, ruined reputations, and police reports.
Mark was irritated, but mostly he was confident. In his mind, Chloe was just being emotional. She was a mother; mothers got hysterical when their kids were reprimanded. Once she saw that he wasn't going to chase after her, she would come crawling back, apologize to his family, and things would return to normal.
He rode the elevator up to the 34th floor, whistling a low, tuneless melody, his keys jingling in his hand.
When the private elevator doors opened into the penthouse vestibule, he stepped out and slid his key into the double mahogany doors.
The key wouldn't turn.
Mark frowned, jiggling the brass handle. He pulled the key out, inspected it, and tried again. The cylinder was completely different. It was a heavy-duty, commercial-grade digital deadbolt with a biometric scanner.
"What the hell?" Mark muttered.
He raised his fist and banged hard on the wood. "Chloe! Open the door! What did you do to the lock?"
The door didn't open, but the elevator chimed behind him.
Mark spun around, expecting the building super. Instead, two men in sharp, tailored suits stepped out, followed by a woman with an immaculate blonde bob, carrying an Italian leather briefcase.
Evelyn Vance, Zoe’s senior litigation associate.
"Mr. Peterson," Evelyn said, her voice crisp, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Good morning."
"Evelyn?" Mark’s eyes darted between her and the two private security guards flanking her. "What is the meaning of this? Why are the locks changed on my apartment?"
"It is not your apartment, Mr. Peterson," Evelyn replied, opening her briefcase and producing a crisp, blue-backed legal document. "The penthouse is owned by Miller Crest Holdings LLC. You have no legal tenancy, lease agreement, or ownership rights to this property."
Mark stared at her, his face turning an ugly shade of plum. "I live here! My wife and I own this place! Where is Chloe? Chloe! Get out here!"
"Keep your voice down," Evelyn instructed calmly. "Mrs. Miller-Peterson is not here. And you will not be seeing her. I am serving you with a temporary protective order issued two hours ago by the Cook County Circuit Court. You are required to maintain a distance of at least five hundred yards from your wife and your daughter, Lily Peterson, until a full evidentiary hearing takes place."
"A restraining order?" Mark shouted, snatching the papers from her hand. "On what grounds? For what? Because my sister disciplined our kid?"
"On the grounds of severe domestic child endangerment, spousal abandonment, and intimidation," Evelyn stated without missing a beat. "Furthermore, your personal effects have already been inventoried, packed, and transferred downstairs to the primary freight loading bay. You have forty-eight hours to arrange a moving truck to retrieve them, or they will be placed in secure commercial storage at your expense."
"You can't do this!" Mark lunged forward, gesturing wildly at the door. "This is my home! My clothes are in there! My watch collection! My family's heirlooms!"
"Your personal clothing, watches, and toiletries are in the basement, Mr. Peterson," Evelyn said coldly. "Any items belonging to the marital estate or purchased through LLC funds remain inside pending forensic inventory. If you attempt to breach this entryway, the security team behind me has full authority to detain you, and the Chicago Police will execute an immediate arrest for violation of a court order."
Mark took a step back, breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his cashmere overcoat.
He looked at the two towering security guards. He looked at Evelyn Vance’s unflinching gaze. For the first time in his sheltered life, the Peterson name meant absolutely nothing. The gold card, the country club membership, the Astor Street address—none of it was stopping the heavy iron machinery of the law from grinding him into dust.
"Tell Chloe she’s insane," Mark hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "Tell her she’s going to lose everything. My father is going to ruin her. She won't get a single penny of Peterson money. She’ll be back in Ohio working in a diner before this year is out!"
Evelyn smiled faintly, a terrifying, patronizing smirk.
May you like
"Mr. Peterson, your father doesn't have the money to pay his own commercial interest notes next month, let alone ruin anyone. I suggest you go check in on him. He’s about to have a very long afternoon."
***
