Chapter 2 - The Eviction Notice
Rodrigo stood at the top of the limestone steps, the crystal tumbler of scotch slipping dangerously in his fingers. The headlights of Daniel Reeves’ convoy pinned him against the twenty-foot arched mahogany entrance like an escaped convict caught in a prison yard searchlight.
Behind him, Evelyn appeared, her emerald gown trailing along the stone floor. Her face was flushed with the high of cruel triumph, holding a silver dessert fork in one hand.
“Rodrigo? Who on earth is that?” she demanded, squinting into the glare. “Is that the caterer’s van? Tell them the dessert spread was mediocre! I won’t have them billing for—”
The driver’s door of the lead S-Class opened. Daniel Reeves stepped out into the cool night air.
At sixty-four, Daniel was an imposing figure—tall, lean, dressed in a charcoal Savile Row three-piece suit, his silver hair cropped short, carrying a slim leather folder under his arm. Behind him, four broad-shouldered men in tailored dark suits and tactical ear-pieces emerged from the SUVs. Two marked Beverly Hills Police Department cruisers pulled in right behind them, their light bars flashing silently against the ancient olive trees lining the driveway.
Rodrigo’s eyes widened, the alcohol haze burning away under a sudden surge of adrenaline. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, descending two steps. “Reeves? What are you doing here with the cops?”
Daniel didn’t answer until he reached the second step from the top, stopping just below Rodrigo so that he looked up at him with cold, clinical detachment.
“Mr. Sanders,” Daniel said, his voice cutting through the evening breeze with razor precision. “I am here on behalf of Halston Residential Holdings and Vance Global Capital.”
Rodrigo let out a loud, theatrical bark of laughter, looking back over his shoulder toward his cousins who had begun spilling out onto the portico to watch the spectacle.
“Halston? Vance? What kind of legal mumbo jumbo are you talking about, Dan? Clara called you, didn't she?” Rodrigo sneered, shaking his head. “The little snitch ran straight to her daddy’s old lawyer. Listen to me carefully, Reeves: Clara was kicked out of this house for insubordination and disrespecting my family. This is my property. You and your circus have ten seconds to turn around before I have the police arrest you for trespassing!”
Lieutenant Harrison of the Beverly Hills Police Department stepped up beside Daniel, his thumbs hooked casually into his duty belt. He didn't look at Rodrigo with deference. He looked at him like an impending paperwork headache.
“Step back from the threshold, Mr. Sanders,” Lieutenant Harrison instructed calmly.
“Harrison?” Rodrigo’s voice cracked slightly, the arrogant facade splintering. “What are you doing? You played golf with my uncle last spring! I host the precinct’s charity gala!”
“And tonight, Mr. Sanders, I am here executing a lawful civil protection order and assisting the rightful property owner with an immediate trespass eviction,” Harrison said neutrally.
Evelyn marched forward, her heels clicking aggressively on the stone. “Trespass eviction? Have you lost your mind, officer? This is the Sanders Estate! My son built this home with his bare hands and his own money! That pathetic little girl he married didn't contribute a single dime!”
Daniel opened the slim leather folder, removed a single, crisp legal document embossed with a gold state seal, and held it up directly in front of Evelyn’s nose.
“Grand Deed number 409-B, recorded with the Los Angeles County Registrar four years, six months ago,” Daniel recited, his tone as flat and unyielding as a gravestone. “Purchaser: Halston Residential Holdings, an offshore single-member LLC registered in Delaware. Sole beneficial owner and managing member: Clara Vance.”
Evelyn blinked. She tried to read the fine print, her mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. “What... what is this nonsense? Rodrigo, what is he saying?”
Rodrigo snatched the paper from Daniel’s hands, his eyes darting frantically across the legal text. His hands began to shake.
“No. No, this is wrong,” Rodrigo stammered, his face draining of all color. “The mortgage... the payments came from Sanders Crest Construction!”
“Sanders Crest Construction never paid a single mortgage payment, Rodrigo,” Daniel said, stepping up to the final landing so he towered over him. “Sanders Crest has been operating at an eighty-thousand-dollar monthly deficit for three straight years. The eight-point-two million dollars required to purchase this estate was wired directly from Clara Vance’s trust account three weeks before she signed your prenuptial agreement—an agreement, I might add, that you drafted to protect your ‘construction empire,’ ensuring that neither party could lay claim to assets acquired prior to the marriage.”
A collective gasp rippled through the doorway.
Uncle Martin, who had been leaning against the frame with a smug expression, suddenly pushed his glasses up his nose, his face turning an ashen gray. “Rodrigo... did she buy the house?”
“Shut up, Martin!” Rodrigo hissed, crushing the paper in his fist. He glared at Daniel, veins pulsing violently along his temples. “She gave it to me! It was a gift! We lived here as husband and wife! You can’t just throw me out of my own domicile without a thirty-day notice! Tenant rights!”
“You are not a tenant, Mr. Sanders,” Daniel said with a venomous smile. “You are an authorized guest whose discretionary guest privileges were revoked at precisely 10:14 PM this evening, following an act of documented felony domestic battery inside the foyer.”
Rodrigo froze. His breath hitched in his throat.
“You have no lease. You have no equity. You have no ownership stake,” Daniel continued, each word landing like a sledgehammer. “And as of five minutes ago, Judge Martinez signed an emergency ex parte protective order barring you from coming within five hundred yards of Clara Vance, her business offices, or any property owned by Vance Global Capital. This estate is property of Vance Global Capital.”
“This is an outrage!” Evelyn shrieked, her voice reaching a shrill, piercing pitch that echoed through the manicured hedges. “You can’t do this to us! My son is an influential man! We have guests! My birthday dinner is inside! My gifts!”
“Mrs. Sanders,” Daniel said, turning his icy gaze toward her. “You have thirty minutes to gather your personal effects—specifically, the clothing you arrived in tonight. Any attempt to remove art, silver, furnishings, or jewelry purchased through the Vance Family Trust will result in immediate felony grand larceny charges. Lieutenant Harrison’s officers are here to supervise the evacuation.”
“Evacuation?” cousin Chloe whimpered from the foyer. “We have to leave?”
“Every single person who does not hold a valid, contracted employment agreement with Halston Holdings must vacate the premises immediately,” Daniel announced, projecting his voice into the foyer so all eighteen relatives heard every syllable. “The locksmiths are arriving in ten minutes to rekey the exterior deadbolts and reprogram the biometric access panels. Anyone remaining on the property at 11:00 PM will be arrested and booked into the Beverly Hills municipal jail.”
Panic erupted instantly.
The cousins began scrambling toward the coat racks, whispering furiously among themselves. Uncle Martin grabbed his wife’s arm, his eyes wide with sheer terror. “I told you he was overleveraged! I told you he didn't have that kind of money!”
“Martin, don't you dare leave me!” Evelyn screamed, grabbing her brother-in-law's sleeve. “Rodrigo, do something! Call the mayor! Call your attorney!”
Rodrigo reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. He dialed frantically, pressing the device against his ear.
“Pick up... pick up, Arthur, you bastard...” he muttered under his breath, trying to reach his corporate legal counsel.
On the third ring, the automated voice of the carrier broke through: *“We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach cannot be completed from this device, as corporate line services have been suspended by the primary account holder.”*
Rodrigo lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen in horrified disbelief.
“She cut the cellular contract?” he whispered.
“Clara Vance pays for the phones, Rodrigo,” Daniel said, leaning down slightly so his words were meant only for him. “She pays for the electricity running the chandeliers. She pays for the gas in your Ferrari—which, by the way, is currently being hitched to a flatbed tow truck at the lower gate, as the lease was signed under Halston Fleet Management.”
“My car?” Rodrigo yelled, his voice cracking into a panicked shriek. “She took my car?!”
“It was never your car,” Daniel replied coldly. “You were merely permitted to drive it to keep up the absurd fiction that you were an equal partner in her life. But when you raised your hand against the woman who built you from a bankrupt contractor into a Beverly Hills socialite, you forfeited the fairy tale.”
Daniel checked his platinum Patek Philippe watch.
May you like
“You have twenty-four minutes, Mr. Sanders. I suggest you start packing your socks.”
***
