Chapter 5 - Tyler’s Ultimatum
The blowback against Megan didn't stay confined to social media or municipal health departments. By Wednesday evening, the fallout hit Eleanor’s manicured suburban home in Henrico like an artillery shell.
The heavy mahogany front door of Eleanor's colonial rattled under three sharp, heavy knocks.
Eleanor opened it, expecting a delivery driver or perhaps a sympathetic church acquaintance. Instead, she found Tyler Vance standing on the porch, accompanied by two burly men in matching navy uniforms from a local professional moving service, along with a middle-aged man carrying a slim leather briefcase.
"Tyler!" Eleanor gasped, instantly attempting to summon a matriarchal smile. "Oh, thank heaven you're here. Megan has been beside herself in her bedroom. She hasn't eaten all day! Come in, let's sit down and resolve this silly misunderstand—"
"Step aside, Eleanor," Tyler said. His tone was as cold as dry ice.
He didn't walk inside; the man with the briefcase did.
"Mrs. James, my name is Arthur Pendelton, legal counsel for the Vance family and Vance Construction," the lawyer said, extending a legal document bound in blue cardstock. "This is an official Notice of Petition for Annulment filed in Henrico County Circuit Court on grounds of fraud, conversion of marital funds, and material non-disclosure prior to solemnization."
Megan came barreling down the curved hardwood staircase, still wearing a silk bathrobe, her hair unwashed, her face pale and frantic.
"Tyler! No! You can't do this!" she shrieked, skidding across the hardwood foyer. "We're married! We made vows before God!"
"You made vows to my bank account, Megan," Tyler replied, standing firmly on the threshold, refusing to cross into the home. "The twelve thousand dollars you stole from our joint account on Friday has been formally documented by forensic accountants. That was money my father gifted us for a down payment on a home. You used it to clear personal debt that you hid from me during our entire engagement."
"I was going to pay it back!" Megan wept, clinging to the bannister. "I was embarrassed! I wanted to be perfect for you!"
"You aren't perfect, Megan. You're parasitic," Tyler said, his voice entirely devoid of the tenderness he had shown her for eighteen months. "These movers are here under a sheriff's civil standby. They are going up to your bedroom, packing every piece of furniture, jewelry, and personal property purchased with my credit cards over the last year, and removing them from the premises."
Eleanor rushed between Tyler and the movers, her arms outstretched like a protective hen. "You can't do that! This is my house! You're trespassing! I will call the police!"
"Call them, Eleanor," Pendelton said with a razor-thin smile. "I have the sheriff's deputy sitting in the cruiser parked across the street. Would you like me to wave him over so he can explain the terms of the repossession order signed by Judge Miller two hours ago?"
Eleanor froze, the color draining from her face until she looked like parchment.
"Tyler, please," Megan sobbed, dropping to her knees on the polished oak floor, tears streaming down her neck. "We can go to counseling! We can talk to Pastor Evans! Please don't do this to me! What will people say?!"
Tyler looked down at her. For a split second, a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by steel.
"My father worked seventy hours a week with calloused hands so I could have a shot at a clean future," Tyler said softly. "Your brother worked eighty hours a week in a sweltering kitchen so he could build something real. You and your mother sit around pretending to be royalty while sucking the marrow out of everyone who actually works for a living. I'd rather be single and broke than spend another minute chained to your greed."
He turned to the movers. "Upstairs. Master bedroom on the right. Clear out everything marked on the inventory sheet."
As the movers stepped past Eleanor, Megan let out a wail that could be heard three houses down.
May you like
Eleanor stood motionless, her manicured fingers digging into the fabric of her lavender cardigan, watching the illusion of high-society respectability crumble into dust before her eyes.
***
