Chapter 3 - Packing in Silence
The next two hours were a masterclass in swift, clinical extraction.
Darcy’s security detail didn't leave the foyer. They stood guard like marble statues while I walked upstairs to the master bedroom, pulling a large, hard-shell suitcase out of the walk-in closet.
Julian hovered in the doorway, his tie loosened, sweat beading on his forehead. The arrogant corporate climber was entirely gone; in his place stood a terrified man realizing his entire parasitic lifestyle had just been legally amputated.
"Sloan, please," Julian muttered, his voice cracking. "Where are we going to live? My name is on the credit lines. If you lock the accounts, I can't even pay for my parking garage."
"That sounds like a personal problem, Julian," I said, folding a cashmere sweater with absolute precision and placing it into the suitcase.
"My mother is beside herself! She’s sitting in the guest room crying!"
"Then she can pack her own bags and cry on the way to a hotel," I replied without looking up. "You both have two hours to get your designer clothes, your golf clubs, and whatever else fits into your luxury European sedans. After that, the locks are being rekeyed, the security codes are being wiped, and any property left behind will be donated to the Downtown Women’s Shelter."
Julian’s face darkened with a flash of his old temper. "You can’t do this! You’re my wife!"
"Not for much longer," I said, snapping the suitcase shut with a sharp click. I looked him dead in the eye. "Remember last night when you told me to get out of your house if I didn't cook sixty dishes? Well, Julian... I took your advice. I’m staying. You’re getting out."
Downstairs, the front door slammed as Fiona hurled herself out of the condo, refusing to be seen packing her own bags by the building’s concierge. She had fled to the lobby, screaming about lawsuits and defamation, only to be politely escorted off the premises by building management after they were shown the emergency court order.
Julian watched her go from the second-floor landing, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own arrogance. He had spent five years treating me like an unpaid maid, a permanent fixture in his decorative life, someone who would absorb his insults and clean up his messes.
He never expected the maid to own the building.
By 2:00 PM, the condo was dead silent. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tapping of my fingernails against the kitchen island.
I walked over to the pantry, reached behind the baking soda tin, and pulled out the old recipe book where I had hidden my emergency passport, birth certificate, and independent investment portfolios.
May you like
I didn't cook sixty dishes for Fiona’s sixtieth birthday.
Instead, I served her son an eviction notice, wrapped in legal iron, and garnished with reality. And honestly? It was the best dish I had ever prepared.
