My ex-husband’s 26-year-old wife showed up at my doorstep with eviction documents and a self-satisfied smile, convinced my mansion now belonged to her father’s company. She had no idea I possessed the paperwork proving I owned not only the house but the entire development behind it. So I said nothing and allowed her little show to go on.
The first thing I noticed was that she didn’t knock.
My front doors—solid mahogany, custom carved, older than the girl trying to force them open—swung inward on the arm of my housekeeper, Elena, who had barely managed to say, “Ma’am, she insists—” before the woman in cream heels clicked across my marble foyer like she already owned the place.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, glossy dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a designer handbag dangling from her wrist like a prize. Amber Vale. My ex-husband’s new wife.
In her hand, she held a thick envelope.
Behind her were two men in cheap suits trying to look official and a local sheriff’s deputy whose expression already said he wished he weren’t here.
Amber smiled at me as if we were two women meeting for lunch instead of one arriving to strip the other of her home.
“Naomi,” she said, stretching my name with sugary malice. “You might want to sit down for this.”
I didn’t move from my place at the base of the staircase, one hand resting lightly on the banister. “You entered my house without permission. Say what you came to say.”
Her smile widened. “Actually, this mansion belongs to my daddy’s company now.”
She raised the envelope and gave it a light shake.
I glanced past her, through the open doors, where a black SUV idled at the curb under the April sun. Across the street, neighbors’ curtains shifted. Of course they were watching. Amber would never stage a humiliation without an audience.
The deputy cleared his throat. “Ma’am, these are civil papers. I’m only here to keep the peace.”
