Chapter 5 - The Frozen Kingdom
The flight back to Atlanta was a nightmare of public humiliation.
Having no money left on their frozen credit cards, Harold was forced to sell his gold Rolex watch to a shady pawn shop owner near the port of St. Jude for six hundred dollars—a fraction of its value—just to buy three standby coach tickets on a budget airline.
When they finally landed at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport late that evening, exhausted, sunburnt, and reeking of sweat, things got exponentially worse.
They walked out to the parking garage where Brooke had parked her high-end Range Rover five days prior. The parking spot was completely empty. In its place stood a yellow plastic sign stamped with a police seal: PROPERTY REPOSSESSED VIA COURT ORDER - CARLISLE ESTATE TRUST.
"My car!" Brooke shrieked, clutching her head in horror. "My Range Rover! That bitch took my car!"
"She didn't take your car, Brooke," Dylan said, his voice completely dead, his eyes staring blankly at the concrete floor. "She bought that car. The lease was in my name, paid through her account."
"What are we going to do?!" Harold yelled, grabbing Dylan by his shirt collar and shaking him violently. "Answer me, you useless idiot! What are we going to do?! My company is ruined! Vance canceled the contract! We have no money!"
"Let's... let's just go home," Dylan whispered, pulling away weakly. "We'll go to the estate in Buckhead. Dad, you have cash in the wall safe, right? We can hire a criminal defense lawyer..."
They spent their last sixty dollars on a dirty taxicab to drive them to the prestigious Buckhead neighborhood where the Sterling family home was located.
The white-columned, three-story neo-classical mansion had been Harold’s ultimate pride—a symbol of his supposed "old money" heritage, even though it had been secretly refinanced three times using Megan’s funds.
When the taxi pulled up to the iron gates of the estate at eleven o'clock at night, the gates were wide open.
Bright yellow floodlights illuminated the circular driveway. Two massive moving vans were parked on the lawn. A team of uniformed movers was systematically hauling hand-carved mahogany furniture, oil paintings, and crystal chandeliers out of the front doors and loading them into the back of the trucks.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" Harold screamed, throwing himself out of the taxi before it had even come to a complete stop. "STOP! STOP THIS IMMEDIATELY! THIS IS MY HOUSE!"
A sharp-looking woman in a charcoal business suit stepped out from the front portico holding a clipboard. Beside her stood two uniformed Fulton County Sheriff's deputies.
"Harold Sterling?" the woman asked calmly, checking her tablet.
"Yes! I am Harold Sterling! Who gave you permission to plunder my estate?!"
"I am Sarah Lin, lead asset recovery counsel for the Carlisle Family Office," the woman introduced herself with crisp professionalism. "As of six o'clock this evening, the Fulton County Superior Court granted an emergency writ of attachment against this property."
"On what grounds?!" Harold roared, his blood pressure soaring into dangerous territory.
"On the grounds that this property was purchased and maintained using funds fraudulently converted from the Megan Carlisle Revocable Trust," Sarah replied smoothly. "We have also executed a lien on all personal property within the residence. Every piece of art, every piece of furniture, and every piece of jewelry purchased after June 2018 is now under the custody of the receiver."
Brooke ran into the foyer, pushing past a mover who was carrying a velvet-lined box containing her designer handbag collection.
"Put those down!" Brooke screamed, clawing at the mover’s arms. "Those are my bags! That's my Chanel! That's my Birkin!"
"Those items were purchased using a credit card issued under the Carlisle Corporate account, Miss Sterling," Sarah Lin said, stepping into the foyer. "You have no legal claim to them."
"Where are we supposed to sleep?!" Harold wept, his proud posture finally collapsing as he looked at his stripped, empty living room. "You can't just throw us onto the street!"
"You have thirty minutes to collect your personal clothing—excluding luxury items—and vacate the premises," the deputy instructed firmly, resting his hand on his holster. "After that, the locks will be changed and the property will be sealed."
Dylan walked into the empty foyer. He stood beneath the bare wires where a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Baccarat crystal chandelier had hung just an hour ago.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was a text message from an unknown number. He opened it with trembling fingers.
It was a short, simple message from my personal attorney:
May you like
Mr. Sterling. Your formal divorce petition, along with criminal charges for child endangerment, grand larceny, and corporate fraud, has been filed with the court. Ms. Carlisle requests that you do not attempt to contact her or your son ever again. Have a pleasant evening.
Dylan dropped his phone. It shattered on the marble floor.
