Chapter 8 - The Public Meltdown
Sloan’s boutique was called *Velvet & Vine*. It occupied a prime corner spot on Oakridge’s historic Main Street, surrounded by high-end coffee shops and artisan bakeries.
On Friday afternoon, the county sheriff’s department arrived with the commercial padlock orders.
I didn't plan to be there. I was simply picking up Laya’s new winter coat from the department store down the block when I heard the screaming.
A crowd of shoppers and business owners had gathered across the sidewalk. In the middle of it stood Sloan, her designer trench coat open, screaming at two uniformed deputies who were calmly placing orange legal notices across the glass double doors.
“You have no right!” Sloan shrieked, her voice echoing off the brick facades. “This is private property! I am a business owner in this town!”
“Ma’am,” the senior deputy said patiently, “the landlord terminated the commercial lease due to structural insolvency and non-payment. We have an order signed by Judge Holbrook. Step away from the door or you will be placed under arrest for obstruction.”
Trent was nowhere to be seen. He had reportedly packed his bags that morning and fled to his brother’s house in Ohio, leaving Sloan to face the wreckage alone.
As the deputies snapped the heavy metal chain through the door handles, Sloan turned, her wild eyes scanning the crowd of onlookers. Then, she spotted me standing by the pedestrian crossing, holding Laya’s hand.
Her eyes dilated with pure malice.
“You!” she screamed, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You did this! You ruined my life, you jealous little bitch!”
The crowd gasped, heads turning in unison toward me. Laya shrank against my side, but I didn't look away. I didn't flinch.
“You ruined your own life, Sloan,” I said clearly, loud enough for every boutique owner on the block to hear. “You spent Dad’s retirement on silk dresses and Trent’s gambling habits. And now the bill is due.”
Sloan lunged toward me, but the younger deputy caught her arm, spinning her around and forcing her hands behind her back.
“That’s enough, ma'am. You're under arrest.”
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As the handcuffs clicked around Sloan’s wrists, the illusion she had spent a decade building shattered on the cold pavement.
***
