Chapter 5 - The Packing of the Manor
The next twenty-four hours at the estate were nothing short of a Greek tragedy played out in real-time.
Since Griffin had no legal standing to keep Ilsa on the property, and since I had explicitly instructed Katherine to enforce the lockout with maximum legal rigor, Ilsa was given a harsh ultimatum: pack your belongings and leave, or have them thrown onto the curb by county deputies.
I didn't go back to the house myself. I watched the security feeds from the safety of the downtown penthouse, sitting beside Merisette and Tansy as we worked on a puzzle together.
On the screen, professional movers hired by Katherine were rolling large cardboard wardrobe boxes through the grand double doors.
Ilsa refused to leave her bedroom for the first six hours. She locked herself inside the master suite, screaming through the oak panels that she would call the governor, the police chief, the Pope—anyone who would listen to her delusions of aristocratic grandeur.
Eventually, reality set in when the local sheriff’s office kindly informed her that if she didn't open the door voluntarily, they would break the lock and carry her out in a folding chair.
When she finally emerged, she looked like a ghost of her former self. Her French twist was unraveling, her cashmere wrap dragged in the dust, and her arms were loaded down with heavy silver framed photographs of her precious son and her deceased husband—the only pieces of her past she apparently deemed worthy of saving.
Griffin followed behind her like a beaten dog, carrying a massive leather trunk filled with her designer wardrobe.
“Where are we supposed to go, Griffin?!” Ilsa wailed aloud in the driveway, her voice cracking with hysterical disbelief as the movers loaded her things into a rented U-haul truck parked awkwardly on the pristine lawn. “Your apartment? That two-bedroom box downtown?! I am an elder of this family! I cannot live in a box!”
“It’s not a box, Mom, it’s a high-rise,” Griffin mumbled miserably, wiping sweat from his forehead. “And... and it’s all we can afford right now. Elena froze our joint accounts pending the asset audit.”
Hearing that specific detail brought a cold, bitter sense of satisfaction to my chest.
For years, Ilsa had looked down her nose at anyone who didn't measure up to her arbitrary, archaic standards of wealth and lineage. She had lived like a queen on money she hadn't earned, in a house she didn't own, built by a woman she had spent a decade subtly undermining.
Now, the bill had finally come due.
By sunset, the U-haul truck pulled away from the gates, kicking up a cloud of autumn dust. Griffin’s luxury sedan followed close behind, packed to the brim with whatever miscellaneous valuables they could cram into the trunk.
The estate was empty.
The gates closed automatically behind them, sealing the property in a deep, peaceful silence.
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On the security monitor, the massive stone courtyard lay completely vacant. No snobs. No hypocrites. No cruel matriarch looking down her nose at little girls who loved to draw and play soccer.
Just an empty house waiting to become a home again.
