Chapter 5 - The Eviction Notice
By the time I stepped back into the dining room, the scene had descended into chaotic ruin. Celeste was clutching her designer handbag, screaming into her phone as she frantically tried to summon an Uber to the gated estate, while Eleanor wept into a silk pillow on the settee. Ethan was pacing like a caged animal, his hair disheveled, his tie pulled loose from his collar.
When the double doors clicked open, all eyes snapped back to me.
Ethan rushed forward immediately, his hands outstretched in an attempt to project contrition. “Maren! Did you talk to Dad? Did he explain the situation? Look, we can fix this. I swear to God I will never speak to Celeste again. I’ll fire her from the PR agency tomorrow morning. We can go to counseling. We can take that trip to Italy you always wanted—”
“Ethan,” I said, stopping him in his tracks with a single raised finger.
He stopped, his eyes wide and bloodshot, desperate for a lifeline. “Yes? Anything, Maren. Whatever you want.”
“Your father has formally stepped down as Chairman of Wycliffe Development Holdings,” I announced, pitching my voice so that every relative in the room could hear.
A collective cry of shock erupted from the family. Curtis stood up so fast his chair clattered backward onto the floor. “What?! Warren stepped down? He can’t do that! Who is running the board?”
“I am,” I said smoothly.
Curtis looked like he was about to suffer a coronary. “You?! You’re the lender! That’s an egregious conflict of interest! We’ll sue you in Delaware Chancery Court before the banks open!”
“You’re welcome to try, Curtis,” I replied, unbuttoning my jacket just enough to pull out a signed single-page resolution Warren had just executed on his personal stationery. “Under the original master credit agreement of 2023, default on character and material disclosure triggers an immediate transfer of voting proxy to Ellsworth Meridian Capital Trust. Your shares have been diluted to zero voting power as of twelve minutes ago.”
Ethan stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the wall. “No... no, Dad wouldn’t do that. Dad! Dad, tell her!”
Warren walked slowly out of the study, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. He didn't look at his son. He didn't look at his sister or his brother. He looked straight at the estate manager who was hovering nervously near the entryway.
“Arthur,” Warren said evenly.
“Yes, Mr. Wycliffe?”
“Have Mr. Ethan’s personal belongings cleared out of the guest cottage by midnight. And call the garage in the city. Have the company lease on the Aston Martin terminated immediately.”
Celeste dropped her phone onto the carpet. It hit with a dull plastic thud. “The Aston Martin was leased?” she whispered, horrified.
I couldn't help the small, genuine laugh that escaped my lips. “Did you really think Ethan bought an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar supercar with his own salary, Celeste? Ethan hasn’t drawn an actual earned paycheck in six years. Every single dinner you ate, every suite you slept in, and every piece of jewelry he gave you was charged against a Wycliffe Development corporate expense line that I was auditing every single quarter.”
Celeste looked at Ethan as if he had suddenly transformed into a cockroach. “You lied to me! You told me you were worth eighty million dollars!”
“I am!” Ethan screamed hysterically, his voice cracking into an ugly sob. “It’s my family! It’s my birthright! Maren, you can’t do this! We are legally married! Half of everything you have is mine under state law! We don't have a prenuptial agreement!”
The entire dining room held its breath. Curtis nodded vigorously, a desperate glint returning to his eyes. “He’s right! Connecticut is an equitable distribution state! You bring the company down, Ethan takes half your personal wealth in the divorce!”
I walked slowly over to my seat, picked up my black leather portfolio, and pulled out a thin, blue-bound folder that had been resting beneath the loan documents the entire evening.
“You’re right, Ethan,” I said, looking at him with absolute pity. “We didn't sign a prenuptial agreement.”
A smug, desperate grin began to crawl back onto Ethan’s face. “See? You can’t leave me with nothing, Maren! I’m your husband!”
“We didn't sign a prenuptial agreement,” I repeated calmly, flipping the blue folder open to reveal a notarized document bearing both of our signatures from three years ago. “We signed an Ellsworth Post-Nuptial Revocable Trust Agreement three months after the wedding, when your father asked me to inject twenty million dollars to keep your luxury residential project from folding.”
Ethan’s smile instantly froze.
“Paragraph nine,” I recited from memory, not even bothering to look down at the page. “In the event of substantiated marital infidelity, gross financial mismanagement, or unauthorized commingling of personal and corporate assets, the offending party waives all claims to marital property, spousal support, and any equity derived from Ellsworth family holdings.”
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I closed the blue folder with a sharp, definitive snap.
“You signed it on our first anniversary, Ethan. Right after I gave you that vintage Patek Philippe watch you’re currently wearing. The watch, by the way, belongs to the trust. Take it off.”
