Chapter 5 - The Eviction of Parasites
Cressida's face morphed from performative compassion into ugly, scarlet fury. "You can't do this! You're sick, Vesper! You're out of your mind from lack of oxygen!"
"Get out," I said. I pulled the oxygen mask down just enough so she could see the absolute absence of mercy on my face. "Get out of my room, Cressida. And take your fake flowers with you."
"Do you know what I did for you?" Cressida shrieked, dropping all pretense. The polished influencer mask cracked entirely, revealing the shrieking narcissist underneath. "I spent hours setting up that campaign! I built an entire brand around saving you! You owe me that money! That platform belongs to me!"
"The platform belongs to the fraud division of the Illinois Attorney General," Gideon said, stepping forward with two uniformed hospital security officers who had just appeared in the doorway. "Gentlemen, please remove these individuals immediately."
Maud lunged toward the bed, her hands clawing the air, desperate to reassert her psychological control. "Vesper, think about the family! If Cressida is arrested, her life is ruined! She’ll never recover from the scandal! You’re her sister—"
"I was your daughter," I cut her off, my voice steady despite the monitor's accelerating chime. "And you left me to die on your porch so she could buy a Porsche."
The two security guards seized Maud by the elbows, pulling her backward. She began to scream, thrashing against their grip, her curated image of a genteel, suffering mother collapsing into unhinged curses. Cressida backed toward the hallway, still clutching her phone, frantically trying to end her live stream before the millions of viewers realized what had just transpired.
"You won't get a cent back!" Cressida screamed through the closing double doors. "I already spent it! It's gone, Vesper! You're going to die broke and alone!"
The heavy ICU doors clicked shut.
Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the rhythmic hum of my monitors. My chest ached, but beneath the physical agony, an unfamiliar sensation began to take root in my core: absolute, unburdened clarity.
"Julian," I said, looking at the attorney. "Begin the asset seizure. I want the car. I want the studio equipment. I want every single designer shoe she bought with that blood money."
"Consider it done," Vance replied. "In fact, we have already filed an ex parte motion for emergency replevin. The sheriff's department is currently en route to your Lincoln Park condo to impound the Porsche from your parking space."
Two hours later, Gideon handed me his iPad. A local Chicago neighborhood blog had just posted a video shot by a resident on my street.
The video showed a flatbed tow truck winching Cressida’s white Porsche Macan onto its steel ramp right outside my building. Cressida was captured on camera in broad daylight, screaming obscenities at the two Cook County deputies, flailing her arms, and kicking the tow truck’s tire until a female deputy forcibly pushed her against the hood, wrenched her arms behind her back, and clicked steel cuffs around her wrists for disorderly conduct and resisting an officer.
Maud stood on the sidewalk, weeping helplessly into her hands, surrounded by large black contractor trash bags filled with Cressida's clothes, which the building manager had unceremoniously dumped on the curb.
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I watched the video twice. I didn't feel joy. I didn't feel triumph. I felt the profound, chilling relief of a prisoner who had finally watched the prison gates swing open from the outside.
***
