Chapter 7 - The First BreachJanuary 2nd, 2027.
The holiday season was officially over, the Christmas trees were being dragged out to curbs across the suburbs, and the working world was dragging itself back into the rhythm of a new year.
I woke up naturally around 7:30 AM, sunlight streaming unobstructed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my loft. I brewed a fresh cup of dark roast coffee, stepped out onto my balcony in a plush cashmere robe, and watched the morning commute crawl across the bridge below.
My burner phone buzzed on the kitchen island.
I walked inside, picked it up, and saw an incoming text from Leo.
“Morning, Maris. Hope you had a wonderful New Year's Eve. Quick heads up: your father managed to get my personal office number through a mutual business contact over the weekend. He left a rather... colorful voicemail about twenty minutes ago. Thought you might want to know that the shock wave is finally hitting the legal reality phase.”
I tapped the voicemail icon and held the phone to my ear.
My father’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight, breathless, and trembling with a rage that clearly felt entirely foreign to a man who was used to everyone bending to his will.
"Leo, or whoever is listening to this... this is Arthur Wren. Maris’s father. I am putting you on notice. That transaction was fraudulent. My daughter was subjected to undue family pressure, coercion, and manipulation, and we are filing an emergency injunction to freeze the title transfer. You are dealing with a multi-family estate asset here, and if you don't reverse this sale voluntarily by noon today, our attorney will name your brokerage in a federal fraud lawsuit—"
The voicemail cut off with a furious click.
I listened to it twice, a quiet, amused smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Emergency injunction. Federal fraud lawsuit. My father had clearly spent the entire holiday weekend huddled with some bottom-feeding ambulance-chaser who had taken a retainer fee just to tell him what he wanted to hear, completely ignoring the basic laws of property ownership in the state of Illinois.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Leo: “Want me to send him a cease-and-desist letter from our legal team reminding him that you are a thirty-six-year-old independent adult who sold her own privately owned asset at fair market value?”
I typed back: “Save your stationery, Leo. Let him waste his money on a lawyer. It’ll teach him how the real world works outside his suburban echo chamber.”
“Will do,” Leo replied instantly with a thumbs-up emoji. “Enjoy your coffee.”
I set the phone down and walked over to my laptop. It was time to officially update my permanent address with my bank, my employer, and the postal service. I had already arranged for my mail to be permanently forwarded to a secure private box downtown.
Every loose thread from my old life was being neatly snipped away, one by one.
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By noon, I received an automated email notification from my former bank confirming that my address change had been processed. A secondary notification popped up shortly after: my former employer’s HR department had updated my emergency contact details, replacing my parents' landline with my new confidential mobile number and an emergency liaison service.
The fortress was sealed. The drawbridge was up. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel a single pang of guilt about locking the gate.
