Chapter 9 - Eviction from Paradise
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the rain had begun to fall over Greenwich, Connecticut—a cold, miserable autumn drizzle that washed the fallen leaves into the gutters.
A sleek black town car pulled into the sweeping circular driveway of the Sterling-Holloway estate, a twenty-two-room Georgian manor sitting on twelve gated acres of prime waterfront real estate. The car lurched to an abrupt stop before reaching the limestone portico.
A line of temporary industrial chain-link fencing had been erected across the drive, guarded by four private security officers in tactical black windbreakers bearing the insignia of Blackwood Security.
Andrew kicked the car door open and stepped out into the rain, not even bothering with an umbrella. Behind him, Olivia stumbled out of the passenger seat. She was wearing an oversized designer hoodie and dark sunglasses, trying frantically to hide her face from the paparazzi drones hovering like wasps above the tree line.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?!" Andrew roared, marching up to the lead security guard. "I own this property! Move this gate before I have every one of you arrested for criminal trespass!"
The lead guard, a square-jawed veteran named Briggs, didn't flinch. He produced a laminated court injunction from under his coat.
"Mr. Holloway, this property is titled exclusively to the Sterling Real Estate Holdings LLC," Briggs recited with practiced monotony. "A temporary restraining order was granted by the Stamford Superior Court at noon today. You are prohibited from approaching within five hundred feet of the perimeter."
"My clothes are in there!" Olivia shrieked from behind Andrew, her voice raw and hysterical. "My Birkins! My jewelry! My art collection!"
"Miss Vance," Briggs said, looking past Andrew to the shivering young woman. "Your personal items were cataloged and removed under the supervision of an independent court referee. They are currently being loaded into those vehicles."
Briggs stepped aside, revealing a flatbed truck parked near the carriage house. On the bed of the truck were two dozen industrial, heavy-duty black contractor garbage bags, tied roughly with yellow plastic twine.
Olivia stared at them, her mouth agape in horror. "Are those... are those my dresses? In trash bags?!"
"Only the items purchased with funds not flagged as stolen capital were released," Briggs said. "The rest has been transferred to the federal holding facility in White Plains."
"Eleanor!" Andrew screamed, rushing the fence and gripping the wet chain-link with his bare hands. "Eleanor, I know you’re in there! Face me, you coward! You can't take my home! You can't take my life!"
On the second-floor balcony, sheltered beneath the deep slate overhang, I stepped out holding a warm cup of Earl Grey tea. I didn't shout. I didn't gloat. I simply looked down at him from the height of the home my great-grandfather had built with steel and sweat long before Andrew Holloway’s grandfather even stepped foot on an American shore.
Andrew saw me. His eyes burned with an animalistic fury. "I will bleed you dry in the divorce! You think you've won? I'm going to take half of everything! The courts will give me half!"
I took a slow sip of tea, my voice carrying cleanly across the damp, quiet courtyard.
"Did you really not read the prenuptial addendum you signed three years ago, Andrew?"
He froze.
"The infidelity infidelity clause," I reminded him, my voice calm, almost maternal. "The one you insisted on adding to protect your Meridian assets in case *I* ever strayed. You wanted the penalty to be total forfeiture of all marital claims in the event of documented moral turpitude. You even insisted on defining adultery to include the gifting of trust assets to third parties."
Andrew let go of the fence. His hands dropped limply to his sides as the memory of that afternoon in his lawyer’s office crashed into him like a physical blow. He had been so arrogant, so convinced of his own intellectual superiority, that he hadn't realized the legal team drafting the document was answering to my family’s estate attorneys.
"You signed your own execution three years ago, darling," I said, setting my teacup on the stone balustrade. "You were just too arrogant to read the fine print."
Beside him, Olivia suddenly stopped crying. Her wet, mascara-stained face hardened as she turned on Andrew.
"You said you owned this house," she spat, her voice shrill and venomous. "You told me the estate was yours! You told me she was living on an allowance you gave her!"
"Shut up, Olivia!" Andrew snapped, rounding on her.
"You lied to me!" Olivia screamed, shoving him backward into the gravel. "You have nothing! You’re broke! They took the car, they took the apartment, they took my necklace—and you’re completely broke!"
"I made you!" Andrew shouted, his face purple with rage. "You were an assistant at a midtown gallery when I found you! You're nothing without me!"
"And you're an indicted felon without a roof over your head!" Olivia shrieked, backing away toward the town car. "Driver! Take me back to the city! Driver!"
"Olivia, get back here!" Andrew lunged for her, but the private security guards stepped across the boundary, their batons drawn.
May you like
I watched from the balcony as the two of them tore each other apart in the rain, their golden illusion disintegrating into cheap, ugly mud. I turned back inside, letting the French doors click shut behind me.
***
