Chapter 3 - The Notice
The sound of the pounding fist against the hollow wood of the apartment door wasn't just a knock; it was a demand.
Little Mia startled against Caleb’s shoulder, letting out a sharp cry and burying her face deeper into his faded sweatshirt. Caleb instinctively stepped back, putting his body between his little sister and the entrance, his jaw set in a hard, defensive line.
“Stay behind me,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
I straightened my shoulders, the executive in me instantly overriding the shock of the envelope. Whatever was happening outside this apartment, it was happening in my presence now, and nobody was going to bully children under my watch—family or not.
I stepped past Caleb and grabbed the brass doorknob, turning it sharply and pulling the door open.
Standing in the dim, water-stained hallway was a thick-set man in a cheap polyester jacket, holding a clipboard in one hand and a stack of bright orange legal notices in the other. He smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and bad cologne. He looked like the kind of low-level property manager who derived his entire sense of authority from making miserable people feel worse.
“About time,” the man snarled, not looking up from his clipboard as he shoved past the threshold without waiting for an invitation. “Look, kid, I told you—the grace period ended yesterday. If the back rent for November and December isn't—who the hell are you?”
He stopped dead in his tracks as he finally looked up and registered my presence. His eyes swept over my tailored charcoal suit, my designer leather boots, and the quiet, uncompromising aura of someone who owned the entire block he was standing on.
“I’m the person asking why you think you can barge into a private residence,” I said, my voice dropping into that icy, lethal register that usually made corporate board members check their ties.
The manager blinked, his greasy face flushing a mottled red as he tried to recalibrate. “Look, lady, I don't know who you are, but these kids are sixty days behind on rent. The landlord, Apex Holdings, has strict policies. If the balance of twelve hundred dollars isn't paid by five o'clock today, the sheriff comes with the eviction notice. That's the law.”
I stared at him. Apex Holdings. One of the secondary shell companies my own acquisitions team had bought out three years ago and folded into our commercial residential portfolio.
“Apex Holdings,” I repeated slowly, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. My own company was about to evict my dead brother's children from a run-down apartment because a mid-level manager wanted to clear the books.
“That’s right,” the man puffed out his chest, trying to regain his footing. “So unless you’re here to pay their tab, I suggest you step aside. These little freeloaders gotta go.”
I didn't yell. I didn't threaten him. I simply reached into my designer handbag, pulled out my gold-plated business card case, and drew out a heavy, cream-colored card embossed with my direct private line and corporate seal. I held it out between two fingers.
“Call this number,” I instructed quietly.
The manager frowned, taking the card. He glanced at the name—Madeline Corwin, Chief Executive Officer, Corwin Enterprises—and his jaw went slack. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost in a polyester jacket.
“C-Corwin?” he stammered, his eyes darting from the card back to my face. “Ms... Ms. Corwin? I—I didn't know. The automated system flags accounts under twelve hundred—we didn't know anyone was—thought the apartment was flagged for—compliance—!”
“You are about to learn a great deal about compliance,” I interrupted, my voice smooth as glass and twice as sharp. “Here is what is going to happen. You are going to walk out of this building. You are going to pull every single file associated with this tenant from your database. You are going to mark their account as paid in full for the next five years. And if I ever hear your heavy boots stomping down this hallway to harass these children again, you won't just be looking for a new job—you’ll be looking for a new career in a different state.”
The man nodded frantically, clutching the business card like it was going to burn his fingers. “Yes, ma'am! Right away, Ms. Corwin! I’ll handle it personally! I’m so sorry—!”
“Get out,” I said.
He didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and practically sprinted down the hallway, the sound of his heavy boots echoing away until silence returned to the corridor.
I closed the door, locked the deadbolt with a firm click, and turned back around to face the living room. Caleb was staring at me, his mouth slightly open, holding Mia tightly against his chest.
May you like
“You... you own the building?” he whispered.
“I own the company that owns the building,” I corrected softly, walking over to the small kitchen table and setting the yellowed envelope down beside their two plates. “And starting right now, nobody is ever going to put an eviction notice on your door again.”
