Chapter 3 - THE MORNING AFTER THE DELUSION
The morning sun rose over Greenwich, casting a golden glow across the manicured lawns of Cedar Ridge Lane.
Inside the master bedroom of the mansion, Mason Cardenas stretched lazily beneath the imported silk sheets. The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air. Beside him, Chloe Miller was scrolling through her phone, sipping a cup of coffee that she had brewed using the automated kitchen espresso machine.
“Honestly, Mason, I still can’t believe how easily she packed up and left,” Chloe laughed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder as she snuggled closer to him. “The woman has zero backbone. Crying about a C-section—please. Some women just love playing the victim.”
Mason smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist. He felt invincible. To him, Victoria was a relic of his past life—a quiet, mouse-like editor who served his domestic needs while he climbed the corporate ladder.
“She’ll realize by noon that she can’t survive a single day without my financial support,” Mason boasted, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’ll give her twenty-four hours to apologize, and then maybe we’ll let her see the baby in the guest wing. Now, let’s get breakfast. I have a major corporate meeting in Manhattan at ten, and I need the Mercedes.”
Ten minutes later, dressed in a bespoke Italian suit, Mason sauntered down the grand staircase with Chloe trailing closely behind him.
He walked out the front door, pulling the sleek electronic key fob from his pocket to unlock the black Mercedes-Benz S-Class parked in the circular driveway.
He pressed the unlock button.
Click. Nothing happened.
Frowning, Mason pressed it again. Still nothing.
He walked up to the driver’s side door and pulled the handle. It was locked tight. Annoyed, he peered through the tinted window—and froze.
A large, official yellow warning sticker was plastered across the driver’s side windshield. At that exact moment, a flatbed tow truck swung smoothly through the front gates of the estate, its amber hazard lights flashing rhythmically in the morning air.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mason shouted, marching down the steps, his face flushing with immediate rage. “Step away from that car! Do you know who I am?”
The tow truck driver stepped out of the cab, chewing gum nonchalantly. He looked down at a clipboard, then up at Mason.
“Are you Mason Cardenas?” the driver asked.
“Yes, I am! And this is my vehicle—”
“Negative, pal,” the driver interrupted, pulling a bright orange repossession order from his clipboard. “Lease agreement terminated by order of the primary financial lessor at 5:00 AM this morning. Vehicle is being repossessed for immediate impoundment. Step clear of the tow zone.”
Before Mason could form a coherent sentence of protest, the flatbed backed up, hooked the front tires of the Mercedes with mechanical precision, and lifted the luxury sedan off the asphalt. Within three minutes, the car that symbolised Mason’s entire social standing was being hauled down the driveway, leaving him standing on the pavement in his expensive Italian shoes with his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief.
“What kind of a sick joke is this?” Mason stammered, pulling out his smartphone. “I’ll call corporate finance right now—they’ll straighten this out!”
He tapped his banking app to check his personal balance before calling.
Error: Account Frozen.
He tried to open his secondary credit card app.
Error: Card Declined.
Panic, cold and sharp, suddenly pierced his chest. He dialed his private banking concierge.
“Hello, this is Mason Cardenas, account ending in—”
“Mr. Cardenas,” a robotic, emotionless automated voice cut him off. “Your accounts have been placed on immediate administrative hold pursuant to a legal asset freeze ordered by Vance Holdings. Please contact your legal counsel for further details.”
“Hold?” Mason yelled into the phone, his face turning pale. “What hold? You can’t freeze my accounts! I’m a senior executive at Cardenas Holdings!”
Just as he finished the sentence, a sleek black town car pulled up to the front entrance of the mansion.
The rear door opened, and Robert Vance stepped out, impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, carrying a thick leather briefcase. Behind him walked two Fairfield County sheriff’s deputies and a certified property manager.
Mason turned toward them, his eyes wide with a mixture of fury and rising terror.
“You!” Mason pointed a shaking finger at Robert. “What is the meaning of this? Get off my property right now, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing!”
Robert didn’t even blink. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, pulled a formal legal document from his briefcase, and handed it directly to Mason’s chest.
“It’s not your property, Mr. Cardenas,” Robert said calmly, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. “This is a formal notice of residential occupancy revocation, issued on behalf of the sole legal owner of 88 Cedar Ridge Lane, Mrs. Victoria Vance.”
Mason stared at the paper, his hands trembling violently.
May you like
“No,” Mason whispered, backing away slowly toward the front steps. “That’s impossible. I live here. This is my house.”
“You lived here,” Robert corrected him sharply, signaling to the property manager to change the electronic gate codes. “And as of right now, you have exactly forty-five minutes to pack your personal belongings, remove your PR assistant from the premises, and vacate the estate. Because if you are still standing on this property when the clock strikes ten, the sheriff’s deputies will escort you off the grounds in handcuffs.”
