Chapter 4 - The Golden Children
For the next three weeks, I went completely dark.
I blocked Richard’s number. I blocked Vanessa’s number. I blocked Tyler and Chloe on every social media platform, though I didn't need to check their profiles to know what was happening. My cousin Sarah, who lived two towns over and had also been excluded from Vanessa’s "exclusive" circle, kept me quietly informed.
"You won't believe the photos Vanessa posted yesterday," Sarah told me over the phone during the second week of June. Lily was playing happily in the backyard of our cozy three-bedroom bungalow, splashing in a plastic kiddie pool under the shade of an old oak tree.
"What did she post?" I asked, stirring a pitcher of iced tea.
"A video of Tyler driving a brand-new jet ski across Lake Washington," Sarah said, her voice dripping with disgust. "The caption was: *'Early graduation gift for our golden boy! Hard work pays off when you build an empire!'* An empire, Hannah! Your father was a high school teacher and she was an aesthetician with three bankruptcies! What empire are they building?"
"An empire of borrowed cards," I said calmly.
"And Richard posted a picture of himself sitting by the pool, smoking a cigar, bragging about his 'private estate' and how peaceful life is when you 'cut out toxic family members.' He was clearly talking about you, Han. People in town are actually believing them. Vanessa’s telling everyone at the tennis club that you tried to extort money from your father on Lily's birthday, and that they had to throw you out to protect their peace."
I took a slow sip of my tea. The sheer audacity of the lie didn't even make my pulse jump.
When people are completely untethered from reality, they construct narratives that cast themselves as royalty and everyone else as peasants. Vanessa had spent the last four years convincing Richard that he was a wealthy patriarch who deserved the finest things in life, and Richard—blinded by his own narcissism—had swallowed the poison with a smile.
They genuinely believed the house was theirs forever.
They believed that because I had always backed down, because I had always been the dutiful, quiet daughter who cleaned up their messes and paid their bills, I would continue to do so indefinitely. They thought my silence over the last three weeks was a sign of submission. They thought I was sitting at home, miserable and defeated, waiting for an opportunity to beg for their forgiveness.
Meanwhile, at Marcus Vance’s office, the legal gears were grinding with absolute, relentless precision.
Every single bank account Richard held was being audited. Every single unauthorized withdrawal from my mother’s residual medical accounts was cataloged. The private hard-money lender, upon receiving Marcus’s certified letter informing them that their loan had been secured using fraudulent documentation on a trust-owned property, went into full panic mode. They immediately issued a *Notice of Acceleration and Intent to Foreclose on Collateral*, demanding $168,000 in principal, accrued interest, and penalty fees, due within fourteen days.
At the same time, the King County Superior Court signed the *Order of Summary Termination of Life Tenancy*.
Because Richard had failed to respond to the formal cure notice sent thirty days earlier—a notice he had undoubtedly tossed into the recycling bin without opening, assuming it was just another property tax reminder I would eventually pay—the judge had ruled in my favor without even requiring a formal hearing.
The life tenancy was officially terminated.
The property was now legally, solely, and indisputably titled to me, Hannah Harrington.
Richard and Vanessa were no longer the master and mistress of a private country estate.
Under the laws of the State of Washington, they were now nothing more than illegal squatters.
"Marcus called this morning," I told Sarah.
"And?" Sarah gasped, leaning in close to her phone.
"The King County Sheriff’s Department dispatched the certified eviction package today. It will be delivered to the front gate tomorrow morning by nine o'clock."
"Oh, to be a fly on that granite counter," Sarah laughed, a sharp, vindictive edge in her voice. "What are you going to do when he calls you?"
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"I'm not going to answer," I said. "Not until he realizes that nobody is coming to save him."
***
