Read the next chapter to see what happens.

-1210 words-

By 3:30 PM, Michael and Cassandra’s pristine, white-carpeted penthouse felt less like a luxury home and more like a closing prison cell.

They had rushed home from the bistro, desperately hoping that the morning’s catastrophes were just some bizarre, synchronized nightmare. But reality was waiting for them at every turn. When Michael tried to unlock the front door with his key fob, the LED light flashed a cold, unyielding red.

Access Denied.

"What?" Michael cursed, pressing the fob harder against the sensor. "That's impossible! I've lived here for five years!"

Cassandra shoved him aside, her face twisted in fury. "Let me try!" She pressed her own fob to the pad. Red. A harsh, electronic buzzing sound mocked them from the hallway speaker.

"Call the property manager!" Cassandra yelled, pacing frantically across the carpeted hallway. "Tell them their system is malfunctioning and we're locked out of our own home!"

Michael whipped out his phone, dialed the front desk, and waited through three rings before the building manager, Mr. Henderson, answered.

"Mr. Whitaker," Henderson said, his voice unusually stiff and formal. "How can I help you?"

"Look, your biometric system is acting up," Michael demanded, trying to sound authoritative despite his mounting panic. "My wife and I are locked out of Unit 14B. Reset our fobs immediately."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitaker, but the system is not malfunctioning," Henderson replied smoothly. "We received updated legal authorization from the primary deed holder early this morning."

Michael frowned, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Primary deed holder? My name is on the lease/purchase agreement!"

"Your name was added as a secondary occupant under your father's corporate guarantee," Henderson corrected. "Mr. Robert Whitaker Sr. executed a full revocation of secondary access rights at 8:00 AM today. Furthermore, he has filed an eviction and asset-retrieval notice for all contents within Unit 14B, as the property is fully owned by Whitaker Holdings."

"My dad?!" Michael screamed into the phone. "He can't do that! That's our home!"

"I suggest you contact Mr. Whitaker directly, sir," Henderson said, before calmly hanging up.

Michael lowered the phone slowly, staring blankly at the locked door. Cassandra was trembling, her designer handbag clutched to her chest like a shield.

"We need to go to his house," Cassandra hissed, her voice vibrating with venom. "We need to go to your parents' house right now, confront them, and make your mother fix this! This is insane! Your father is destroying our lives over a little family squabble!"

"A little family squabble?" Michael snapped, finally turning on her with a flash of his own anger. "You're the one who slapped her! You started the whole damn thing!"

"I did it because she looked like a pathetic beggar in that cheap dress!" Cassandra shrieked back, her mask of composure completely shattering. "And you helped me! You're the one who shoved her! Don't you dare try to pin this all on me, Michael Whitaker! We're in this together!"

They glared at each other in the silent hallway, the stark realization of what they had done finally settling over them like a shroud. Without another word, they turned toward the elevator and rushed down to the parking garage, piling into Michael’s luxury German sedan.

Forty-five minutes later, they screeched into the circular driveway of the Whitaker family estate—a sprawling, ivy-covered brick manor nestled behind wrought-iron security gates.

Michael slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into park. They leaped out and rushed toward the grand double doors. Michael didn't bother knocking; he jammed his thumb against the smart-lock scanner on the front door.

Red.

"Dad!" Michael screamed, pounding his fists against the heavy oak wood. "Dad, open up! Mom, I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"

Cassandra joined in, clawing at the wood with her manicured nails. "Robert! Let us in right now! You can't treat us like this!"

The heavy oak door slowly swung open.

It wasn't Robert standing there. It wasn't Ellen.

It was Marcus Vance, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, holding a thick manila folder in one hand and looking at them with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a pair of lab rats.

"Can I help you?" Marcus asked smoothly.

Michael blinked, staring past Marcus into the dimly lit, opulent foyer. "Where are my parents? Get out of my way, I need to speak to my father."

"Your father is busy," Marcus said, not moving an inch from the doorway. "And technically, you have no legal right to enter this property. In fact, according to the restraining order signed by Judge Harrison twenty minutes ago, neither of you are permitted within five hundred feet of this residence, nor within five hundred feet of Ellen Whitaker."

Michael stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide. "A... a restraining order?"