Chapter 3 - The Three-Day Silence
Back at the hillside house, the first three days flew by in a blur of peaceful domesticity. I spent my time unboxing my books, hanging my mother’s favorite oil paintings along the minimalist drywall, and setting up a state-of-the-art home office overlooking the valley. There were no doors slamming, no passive-aggressive sighs at the dinner table, and no Gwendolyn marching into my workspace to complain about insignificant messes.
On the third afternoon, while I was sitting on the back patio laptop in hand reviewing digital architectural blueprints for a landscape renovation, my phone finally rang.
The caller ID flashed Father.
I stared at the screen for several seconds, letting it ring out until it hit voicemail. I wanted them to sweat. I wanted the reality of their self-made prison to sink in completely before I lowered the boom. Within two minutes, my phone lit up again with a text message from Samuel: Paige, answer your phone. Gwendolyn is furious. Chloe has been crying for two hours because her room setup is ruined. Where are you? Come home right now and stop this childishness.
Childishness. That was his word for standing up to tyranny. I didn't reply. I simply blocked his number, along with Gwendolyn’s and Chloe’s, routing any future communications straight through Marcus’s legal office.
Little did I know, the drama unfolding at the Phoenix house was reaching a fever pitch. According to the neighborly spy network—specifically Mrs. Gable, an elderly widow three doors down who despised Gwendolyn with a passion—my departure had triggered an absolute catastrophe. On day two, Chloe had dragged all her ring lights, clothing racks, and makeup tables into my old bedroom, only to discover that the custom closet layout didn't fit her aesthetic. She had thrown a massive tantrum, screaming at Gwendolyn for forcing her into a room that “smelled like an old lady.” Gwendolyn, in turn, had blamed Samuel for failing to control me, resulting in a screaming match that echoed all the way out to the street.
Worse still, my father had tried to access our household operating account to pay for a last-minute weekend spa getaway meant to appease Gwendolyn and Chloe, only to find the card declined. When he called the bank, he was informed that the account—tied directly to the property’s secondary trust—had been frozen pending a legal audit.
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They were trapped in a house they no longer legally controlled, with frozen funds, escalating family warfare, and zero clue about the tsunami heading directly toward their front porch.
And the best part? The sheriff’s deputies were scheduled to arrive at their doorstep at 10:00 AM the following morning.
