Chapter 2 - The Stranger at the Door**
Seven days passed in a blur of peaceful silence. I didn't clean a single tile, I didn't cook a single meal for ungrateful guests, and I spent my time resting, organizing the nursery, and meeting daily with Marcus Hale to finalize the demolition of Caleb’s financial security.
On the eighth day, precisely at 2:00 PM, a black town car pulled up our long gravel driveway.
I stood by the second-floor master suite window, parting the sheer linen curtains just enough to watch the unfolding drama.
Caleb stepped out of the passenger side, looking tan, relaxed, and wearing an expensive linen shirt he had charged to our corporate account before I cut it off. Diane emerged from the driver's side, complaining loudly about the humidity in Cabo, while Brooke strutted behind them, scrolling through her phone and laughing about some vacation memory.
They marched up the front steps with the arrogant swagger of people returning to a domain they believed they completely controlled.
Caleb reached into his pocket for his house keys, slipped one into the deadbolt, and turned it.
*Click.*
Nothing happened. The door remained firmly locked.
Caleb frowned, jiggling the key and trying again. “What the hell?” he muttered, twisting the knob.
Diane huffed impatiently, stepping onto the porch. “Honestly, Claire is probably upstairs sleeping. Call her cell phone, Caleb. She’s probably ignoring us because she didn’t finish the guest rooms.”
Caleb pulled out his phone, dialing my number. Upstairs on my nightstand, my phone vibrated silently, displaying his face. I let it ring straight to voicemail.
Frowning deeper, Caleb dropped his luggage on the welcome mat and raised his fist to pound heavily against the solid oak front door. “Claire! Open up right now! What kind of childish game are you playing?”
A moment later, the heavy deadbolt turned smoothly from the inside.
The door swung open. But it wasn’t me standing there.
Instead, a tall, imposing man in a sharp charcoal suit—Marcus Hale’s senior private investigator and estate bailiff, Thomas Vance—stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance completely. His posture was rigid, his expression an impenetrable wall of professional indifference.
Caleb stumbled backward half a step, shock flashing across his sun-kissed face. Diane gasped, clutching her pearls, while Brooke dropped her phone onto the porch rug with a sharp clatter.
“Who... who the hell are you?” Caleb demanded, puffing out his chest and trying to regain his alpha-male composure. “Where is my wife? Get out of my house!”
Thomas Vance did not flinch. He didn’t move an inch. He simply looked down at Caleb with cold, clinical disdain.
“You cannot come inside, Mr. Prescott,” Thomas said, his voice calm, steady, and loud enough to echo across the entire front lawn. “This property no longer belongs to your family, and your authorization to enter or occupy these premises has been permanently revoked.”
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Caleb’s face went instantly white, the tan draining from his cheeks until he looked like a ghost standing in the afternoon sun.
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