Chapter 6 - The Beverly Hills Auction
By Monday afternoon, the grand Beverly Hills estate of Grace and Arthur Whitmore looked less like a symbol of old money aristocracy and more like a liquidation warehouse.
Large, bold auction signs were staked in the immaculate front lawn. Uniformed movers carted crystal chandeliers, imported oil paintings, and antique Persian rugs out the double doors, loading them into large trucks parked in the circular driveway.
I sat in the passenger seat of Marcus’s sleek town car parked across the street, watching the spectacle unfold.
Grace stood on the front steps, wrapped in a designer shawl, screaming hysterically at a bank representative who was holding a clipboard. Arthur sat slumped on a stone bench near the fountain, staring blankly at the ground, a broken old man whose legacy had vanished overnight because of his son’s reckless arrogance and his wife’s toxic snobbery.
Across the street, a sleek black sedan pulled up. Melissa and Garrett—who had flown in from Boston after hearing about the Whitmore family collapse—rushed out of the car, waving their arms and shouting in panic as they realized they wouldn't inherit a single dime.
The entire house of cards had collapsed in less than a week.
My phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from my bank.
Transfer Complete: Retainer funds and legal settlement executed.
Along with the legal settlement, the court had formally awarded me complete ownership of all remaining unencumbered marital assets as restitution for damages, which included a secondary commercial property Jackson had tried to hide in downtown Los Angeles. My firm was expanding, my Minneapolis apartment was completely safe, and my name was permanently cleared of any association with Jackson’s financial crimes.
“You know,” Marcus said quietly, watching Grace break down in tears as her antique grand piano was rolled out the front door, “some people spend their whole lives building walls to keep others out. But when the storm hits, those walls are the first things to crush them.”
“That’s because they didn't build a foundation,” I replied, turning my gaze away from the tragic spectacle and looking out toward the bright California highway ahead. “They just built an illusion.”
“Where to now, boss?” Marcus asked with a respectful smile.
May you like
I looked down at my hands, feeling the smooth skin where my wedding ring used to be—a ring I had removed and dropped into the evidence box at the police station.
“Take me to LAX,” I said. “I have a flight to catch back home to Minneapolis.”
