Chapter 3 - The Audacity of the Entitled
When Linda returned home at 10:30 a.m., the driveway was blocked by a large commercial delivery van. Two workers in blue overalls were unloading a massive, velvet-upholstered sectional sofa onto the front porch.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a silk robe and holding a steaming mug of lavender tea, was Savannah. Beside her stood Derek, holding a tape measure and marking lines on the hardwood entrance floor with a piece of chalk.
Inside the living room, Linda’s heart sank.
Her mother’s antique mahogany side tables—hand-carved pieces that had sat in the house for forty years—had been dragged out into the hallway and stacked near the front door like discarded trash. In their place stood sleek, cheap modern furniture boxes.
"What is going on here?" Linda asked, stepping into the foyer, her coat still draped over her arm.
Savannah took a leisurely sip of her tea and looked down at Linda with an expression of dismissive superiority.
"Oh, good, you're back," Savannah said casually. "You didn't do the laundry from last night. Derek needs his gym clothes washed by noon."
"I asked you a question, Savannah," Linda said, her tone icy and measured. "Why is my mother's furniture in the hallway?"
"Because it's hideous," Savannah replied, gesturing vaguely toward the antique mahogany tables. "It looks like a museum in here. Derek and I ordered new furniture for the main living area. We're turning this into an open-concept entertainment lounge."
Derek stepped forward, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He didn't offer a greeting or an apology. "Yeah, Linda, and we're going to need you to move your car out of the left bay in the garage. I'm setting up my woodworking machinery in there this afternoon."
Linda looked at Derek, then at Savannah, and finally at the chalk marks on her father's hand-polished floorboards.
"Did Christopher tell you that you could redecorate?" Linda asked.
"Dad said this house is going to be ours anyway," Savannah scoffed, rolling her eyes. "He told us last night that he's finalizing the estate papers. He said you're just staying here until he sets up your smaller condo downtown."
Linda felt a cold, crystalline clarity wash over her. Christopher had spent months spinning a web of elaborate lies to his daughter, convincing her that Linda was a dependent wife living off his generosity, and that he held the power to dispose of the estate as he saw fit.
"I see," Linda said softly.
She pulled out her smartphone, lifted the lens, and methodically began taking high-resolution photographs: the chalk marks on the hardwood, the antique furniture stacked in the hall, the delivery workers dragging heavy boxes across the threshold, and Savannah standing proudly in her silk robe.
"What are you doing?" Savannah demanded, her voice rising in irritation. "Stop taking pictures of us! You're acting insane!"
"Documenting property damage," Linda replied smoothly.
"Dad!" Savannah shrieked at the top of her lungs toward the upstairs floor. "Dad, come down here! She's starting again!"
Christopher descended the stairs rapidly, wearing his work trousers and a rumpled dress shirt. He looked exhausted, bags dark under his eyes, his posture slouched. But when he saw Linda standing in the center of the room with her phone raised, his face hardened into an accusatory glare.
"Linda, for God's sake!" Christopher snapped, stepping between her and Savannah. "Can we not have one morning without you creating a crisis?! Savannah and Derek are trying to make this place feel like home!"
"Come with me to the study, Christopher," Linda said, turning on her heel without waiting for an answer. "Now."
Something in Linda's voice made Christopher pause. He looked at Savannah, muttered something under his breath, and followed Linda down the corridor into her home office.
The moment the door clicked shut, Christopher folded his arms across his chest, attempting to adopt an authoritative stance. "Look, Linda, I know you're set in your ways, but you have to be flexible. Savannah is my daughter. If she wants to update the living room—"
Linda walked behind her desk, picked up a single white folder she had brought from Marcus’s office, and tossed it flat onto the desk surface between them.
The front page bore the seal of Vanguard Equity Capital and the red stamp of the State Financial Crimes Unit.
Christopher’s gaze fell onto the paper.
The blood drained from his face so fast he looked as though he had been struck by a physical blow. His folded arms loosened, his hands dropping limply to his sides.
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"Two point eight million dollars, Christopher," Linda said, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unyielding steel. "You forged my name on a private equity mortgage. You defaulted on three consecutive payments. And you promised my home to your daughter to keep her from exposing your failed business ventures."
Christopher backed away until his spine hit the wooden doorframe, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.
