Chapter 3 - The Queen’s Gambit
The drive down US-1 toward Pinecrest was smooth, the humming engine of my backup Mercedes cutting through the morning traffic. My phone buzzed persistently in the center console. I glanced down. *Brandon calling (14).*
I let it ring out.
By the time Marcus’s sleek black BMW and my Mercedes pulled through the wrought-iron security gates of the Pinecrest estate, the morning heat was already thick and humid. The landscaping was immaculate—the royal palms swayed lazily in the breeze, and the cobalt-blue water of the infinity pool shimmered under the Florida sun.
It was a magnificent estate. One I had worked eighty-hour weeks to acquire. One that Brandon had promised Brooke she could decorate however she pleased.
I stepped out of the car, my Christian Louboutin heels clicking sharply against the cobblestone driveway. Marcus stepped out behind me, flanked by two private security contractors in dark suits and local process servers holding thick manila folders.
The front double doors of the mansion were wide open. Through the entryway, I could hear muffled laughter and the sound of upbeat pop music playing from the integrated surround-sound system.
"Babe, hand me another mimosa," a chirpy, high-pitched voice called out from the kitchen area. "Your mother just texted. She said the monthly wire hasn't hit yet. Is Charlotte playing games again?"
Brandon’s voice rumbled in response, arrogant and dismissive. "Don't worry about her. The bitter old hag is probably crying in some cheap motel. She’ll wire the money by noon once she realizes she has no leverage. That house in Pinecrest is ours, Brooke. We won."
I walked through the double doors, stepping onto the Italian marble foyer.
Brooke was lounging on my white leather living room sofa, wearing an oversized silk bathrobe emblazoned with my initials—*CP*—while sipping champagne from a crystal flute. Brandon was standing by the kitchen island, wearing a plush bathrobe, casually flipping through a high-end interior design catalog.
They both froze as my heels clicked across the marble.
Brandon’s smile evaporated instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment. Brooke dropped her champagne flute; it shattered against the marble floor, splashing golden liquid across the pristine white surface.
"What... what the hell are you doing here?" Brandon stammered, dropping the catalog. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "I told you last night! You don't live here anymore! Get out before I call the police!"
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly toward the living room, running my fingers lightly over the back of the sofa, looking at Brooke with an expression of mild, clinical curiosity.
"Nice robe, Brooke," I said smoothly. "Though the initials stand for *Charlotte Prescott*, not *Parasitic Concubine*. But hey, wear what you like. It’s the last time you’ll ever set foot in this closet."
"You... you crazy bitch!" Brooke shrieked, scrambling off the sofa and pulling the robe tighter around her bloated stomach. "Brandon, tell her to leave! She’s trespassing! This is *our* house!"
Brandon stepped forward, puffing out his chest, trying to reclaim some shred of masculine authority. "Charlotte, you have lost your damn mind. Pack your bags and get out. You signed the papers last night! You have no right to be here!"
"Ah, about those papers, Brandon," I said, offering a cold, sweet smile.
I gestured to Marcus, who stepped forward holding a heavy manila folder, flanked by the two security guards.
"Let's review what I actually signed," I continued, crossing my arms. "I signed an acknowledgment of intent to separate. I did *not* sign away the property deed. Because, as it turns out—and as your little brain failed to comprehend—this house is not yours. It belongs to *Prescott Holdings LLC*. And since you have no legal marriage, no deed, no lease, and no authorization to house your mistress in a corporate asset..."
I gestured to the process servers, who immediately stepped forward, handing Brandon a thick stack of legal documents directly to his chest.
May you like
"...you, your mistress, and your unborn child are legally classified as unauthorized squatters. You have thirty minutes to pack your designer shoes, your rented ego, and your pathetic little excuses, and get off my property."
***
