Chapter 3 - The eviction Notice
By noon, news of the executive purge at Whitmore Freight had leaked to the financial press. The Charlotte Business Journal ran a front-page digital banner: "WHITMORE FREIGHT CEO OUSTED AMID MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR FRAUD INVESTIGATION."
I spent the afternoon in my father’s old corner office, reviewing the restructuring plan with Naomi. The desk was heavy mahogany, untouched since the day my father passed away four years ago. For years, Evan had tried to move it to the basement to replace it with a glass modern desk, but I had refused. Now, sitting behind it, I felt my father’s quiet strength coursing through my veins.
A gentle knock sounded on the oak door.
Naomi stepped in, holding a digital tablet. “The eviction team just arrived at the Lake Norman estate.”
I pulled up the security camera feed from our home—the 8,000-square-foot waterfront property my father had purchased for me as a wedding gift eleven years ago.
On the screen, two moving vans were parked in the circular stone driveway. Private security guards were standing by the front gates while locksmiths changed the biometric locks on the heavy iron front doors.
Barbara was standing on the front lawn in her high heels, screaming at the moving crew as they carried designer luggage and wardrobe boxes out to the driveway.
“You can’t throw me out!” Barbara was screeching, her dark sunglasses hanging crookedly off her ear. “My son owns this house! I have lived in the guest wing for eight years!”
Evan stood beside his sports car—or what used to be his sports car. A flatbed tow truck was currently winch-loading his $220,000 Porsche 911 GT3 onto the back, as the car had been leased under Whitmore Freight’s corporate fleet account.
“This property was deeded exclusively to Clara Whitmore prior to your marriage,” the head eviction officer informed Evan calmly, handing him a legal notice. “Under the terms of the post-divorce decree enforcement, all non-titled residents must vacate the premises immediately. You have thirty minutes to collect your personal clothing.”
Kelsey was sitting on her suitcase by the fountain, crying hysterically while holding her phone to her ear.
I picked up my desk phone and dialed the number connected to the driveway intercom speaker.
The exterior speaker chimed. My voice resonated across the stone courtyard.
“Hello, Evan. Hello, Barbara.”
Evan whipped his head toward the security camera mounted above the archway, his face twisted in fury. He stormed toward the camera.
“Clara! You absolute bitch!” Evan roared into the microphone. “You’re kicking my mother out onto the street?! She’s sixty-two years old!”
“She’s sixty-two, fully capable of working, and currently under federal investigation for grand larceny,” I replied through the speaker, my voice calm and completely unbothered. “And as for you, Evan, the locks on the penthouse in South End have also been changed. The lease was terminated an hour ago since it was paid with stolen corporate funds.”
Kelsey gasped, snapping her head toward Evan. “What?! The penthouse is gone too? Where are we supposed to go? Where are my things?!”
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“Ask Barbara,” I suggested coldly. “I’m sure her $2.8 million event consultancy can afford a nice motel near the highway. You have twenty minutes left before security cites you for criminal trespassing.”
I cut the line.
