Chapter 3 - The Eviction Notice on Elm StreetBack at the Elm Street house, Saturday morning had turned into a chaotic staging ground for Chloe’s grand design.
According to the security camera feed I could still remotely access via my tablet, Chloe had already dragged three large plastic bins of clothes, makeup organizers, and ring lights into my old bedroom. She was standing in front of my mother’s custom cherry-wood window seat, directing a professional painting crew she had apparently hired weeks in advance, intending to paint the warm cream walls a blinding neon pink.
Gwendolyn was supervising from the hallway, sipping mimosas with a look of supreme triumph. My father was nowhere to be seen—likely hiding out in his home office to escape the smell of fresh paint and the noise of Chloe’s triumph.
Then, the front doorbell rang.
On the live camera feed, I watched as the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, answered the door. Standing on the porch wasn't a delivery driver or a neighbor, but a tall, sharp-suited process server holding a thick manila folder, flanked by a uniformed Maricopa County Sheriff’s deputy.
Gwendolyn’s voice drifted clearly through the entryway audio feed. “Can I help you? If this is about the neighborhood association, my husband handles—'
“Mrs. Gwendolyn Moretti?” the process server interrupted, his voice clipped and formal. “And Mr. Samuel Moretti?”
“I’m Mrs. Moretti,” Gwendolyn said, her tone souring into immediate irritation. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You’ve been served with a Notice of Trust Revocation and Immediate Notice to Quit,” the server stated, handing the thick packet directly into her chest. “Issued on behalf of the primary trust holder and legal owner, Paige Moretti.”
For a second, absolute silence fell over the foyer. Even the painters stopped rolling their brushes.
On my tablet, I watched Gwendolyn’s face cycle through a dozen expressions—confusion, denial, sudden panic, and finally, burning rage.
“This is a ridiculous joke!” Gwendolyn shrieked, her voice cracking. “Paige doesn't own this house! Samuel and I own this house! We are married! Her name isn't even on the primary deed!”
“Actually, ma’am, according to Trust Document 88-B filed under the late Elena Moretti,” the deputy stepped forward, resting a hand calmly on his utility belt, “Miss Paige Moretti is the sole legal owner and beneficiary. Furthermore, due to last night’s documented verbal eviction and breach of trust covenants, your right of occupancy has been formally terminated. You and all unauthorized occupants have forty-eight hours to remove your personal effects from the premises.”
“Forty-eight hours?!” Gwendolyn screamed, dropping the legal papers onto the black-and-white marble floor. “We have lived here for nine years! This is our home! Samuel! SAMUEL!”
From the back of the house, my father came jogging down the hallway, looking pale and disheveled. “What’s going on? Who’s yelling?”
“Tell these idiots who owns this house, Samuel!” Gwendolyn sobbed, grabbing my father’s arm and shaking it frantically. “Tell them you and I bought this place! Tell them this little brat of yours can't throw us out!”
My father stared down at the legal papers scattered at his feet. He picked up the top page, his eyes scanning the embossed seal of Vance & Sterling Trust Law. The color drained completely from his face. He knew. He had always known. He had simply chosen to sweep the trust agreement under the rug, hoping Gwendolyn would never find out and hoping I would never assert my rights.
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“Gwen...” my father whispered, his voice trembling. “She... she legally owns it. Your name was never on the title.”
The camera picked up the exact second Gwendolyn’s jaw dropped. The mimosas crashed to the marble floor, shattering into a million pieces.
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