Chapter 5 - Locked Out
When Diane’s Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of the gated luxury community of Oakmont Estates, Mark didn't wait for the valet. He stormed past the front lobby, ignoring the concierge’s hesitant greeting, and took the private elevator straight to the top-floor penthouse.
"I’m going to drag her out by her hair," Mark muttered under his breath, keycard in hand. "I’m going to throw her pathetic thrift-store clothes onto the street."
He shoved the keycard into the electronic lock.
A sharp red light flashed. A harsh double-beep sounded.
Mark tried again. *Beep-beep.* Red light.
"What the hell?" He kicked the heavy mahogany door. "Claire! Open this door right now!"
The door clicked, but it didn't open inward. Instead, it swung outward by two inches, caught by an industrial-grade security latch. Standing on the other side wasn't Claire.
It was Ethan.
He had a cup of coffee in his hand and a fresh bandage over his lip. Behind him stood two burly men wearing dark suits with private security badges pinned to their lapels.
"Morning, Mark," Ethan said mildly, taking a slow sip.
Mark’s face contorted into pure venom. "Get the hell out of my house, you trailer-trash bum! Claire! Claire, get out here!"
"It's not your house, Mark," I said, stepping into view behind Ethan.
I was dressed in a crisp navy pantsuit, my hair washed and pulled back into an immaculate low bun. I looked completely different from the tired, nervous wife who used to jump every time Mark dropped his keys on the counter.
"What are you talking about?" Mark roared. "I bought this penthouse!"
"No, Mark. My father bought this penthouse twelve years ago," I said calmly. "It was leased to us through the family trust. The lease was terminated at midnight due to a clause regarding criminal domestic violence on the premises. Your belongings have already been packed."
As if on cue, the service elevator doors opened behind Mark. Two movers wheeled out six oversized black garbage bags and stacked them neatly in the hallway.
"Your clothes," I added. "Diane, your fake jewelry that you left in the guest suite is in the smallest bag."
Diane gasped in horror, clutching her pearls. "You insolent brat! You can't do this! I am a pillar of this community!"
"Not anymore, Diane," Ethan interjected. "Check Twitter. Or Instagram. Or the Richmond Herald's morning digital edition."
Mark pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. The video was everywhere.
The hashtag #BarbecueBully was trending statewide. The footage was pristine—crisp 4K resolution from my concealed phone, showing Mark pouring beer over my head, sneering, and throwing an unprovoked punch at Ethan. Over three million views in less than eight hours.
"You ruined me..." Mark gasped, the reality finally piercing through his arrogance. "You recorded that on purpose."
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"You did this to yourself, Mark," I said, stepping back into the apartment. "Ethan, close the door. The smell of desperation is leaking into the hallway."
***
