Chapter 2
The notary walked into the foyer accompanied by my corporate lawyer and two security managers from the neighborhood association. Bernice Phillips scrambled to her feet, her designer skirt soaked in cheap bourbon and dirt, while nursing a tiny scratch on her palm.
“This crazy woman just destroyed an eighty-thousand-dollar collectible bottle!” Bernice Phillips screamed, pointing a shaky finger at me. “I want you officers to arrest her right now!”
My lawyer, Kenneth, stepped over the broken glass, sniffed the dark puddle on the carpet, and placed an official notification packet onto the wooden table.
“The bottle in question belongs entirely to Mrs. Caroline Phillips, as does this real estate property and every piece of furniture inside it,” Kenneth explained smoothly. “Mr. Scott Phillips and Mrs. Bernice Phillips reside here solely under a revocable housing loan agreement, which was formally revoked five days ago and notarized this morning.”
Bernice Phillips stared at me with wide eyes, her face twisted in utter disbelief.
“My son bought this entire estate with his hard-earned money!” she yelled.
“Your son did not even purchase the front door lock,” I replied firmly. “He simply signed a conditional contract without reading the fine print because he loved playing the role of a wealthy master.”
The front entrance swung open hard, and Scott Phillips rushed inside soaking wet from the pouring rain, dropping his leather briefcase when he saw the shattered glass cabinet.
“What did you do to my collection?” Scott Phillips shouted, rushing toward the amber puddle on the floor.
“I did the exact same thing you did to my trust,” I answered without flinching. “I broke it open to see what was actually inside.”
I thrust the property deed directly in front of his wet face, showing him that the entire estate belonged to Phillips Holdings, an entity established long before our wedding and controlled exclusively by my private bank account. Scott Phillips flipped through the official pages in pure desperation, his knuckles turning white.
“You told me your father was just a broke farmer who sold a tiny patch of dirt!” he stammered out.
“I said my father provided me with capital, but I never once said he gave it to you,” I clarified cold-heartedly.
His arrogant expression melted instantly, replacing the proud husband with a panicked strategist calculating the immense fortune slipping through his fingers.
“Caroline, listen to me, we can resolve this like adults,” Scott Phillips pleaded, taking a cautious step closer. “My mother obviously stepped out of line, but you crossed a boundary too, and we are still a family.”
Instead of answering him, I pulled out a portable speaker and pressed play on a voice recording. Scott Phillips’s own distinct voice echoed loudly through the high-ceilinged room.
“Just ask your old man for another three hundred thousand dollars, Caroline. Tell him it is to cover emergency payroll, and as soon as the wire hits, we will move it into our shell company where nobody can trace it.”
Scott Phillips stood completely frozen on the spot, his mouth half open.
I tapped the screen again to play another intercepted phone call, where Scott Phillips was laughing hysterically with his accountant about fake vendor invoices, inflated business expenses, and a thirty-thousand-dollar luxury watch he had bought using funds he swore were meant to save his failing tech firm.
Bernice Phillips gasped in shock and lunged toward her son, grabbing his soaked collar.
“Tell me that audio is a complete lie!” she screamed into his face.
Scott Phillips shoved his mother away so hard she nearly fell over the sofa.
“Shut your mouth!” Scott Phillips yelled back furiously. “You are the primary reason all that cash got burned through in the first place!”
“Me?” Bernice Phillips cried out in betrayal. “You promised me that you owned this entire mansion outright!”
Kenneth stepped between them before their screaming match turned physical, holding up an official inventory clipboard.
“Your personal clothing items have already been logged, so you may leave the premises voluntarily today,” Kenneth announced. “The remaining assets will be held per judicial order, but if you refuse to comply, civil eviction will begin immediately.”
Scott Phillips turned back toward me, dropping his head as his arrogant tone crumbled into a desperate whisper.
“What do you want from me now?” he asked softly. “Do you want a written apology, or do you want me to get down on my knees?”
“I want you to listen to one last recording,” I said quietly.
I opened the final audio file on my phone, and Bernice Phillips’s harsh voice filled the silent room from a recording taken the exact day my father had traveled to visit me.
“Get off this porch, you filthy old beggar. My daughter-in-law already leeches off my brilliant son, so do not come creeping around here looking for handouts.”
Then came Scott Phillips’s voice from that same evening.
May you like
“Your dad dresses like a homeless scrap collector, Caroline, so just buy him a decent shirt and stop whining about it.”
Scott Phillips turned ghostly pale as red emergency lights flashed against the large front windows, signaling the arrival of an official law enforcement vehicle outside. I had not yet revealed the most catastrophic detail to him, which was the criminal evidence that would transfer him from this luxury living room straight to a courtroom dock.
