Part 9: The Estate Eviction
The grand gates of the Harrington family estate in Long Island were unchained at 8:00 a.m. the following morning.
A moving truck sat parked on the manicured front lawn, right beside the cracked stone flower pots.
Richard’s mother stood on the terrace in her designer robe, her fingers trembling violently as she held her coffee.
Two federal marshals were actively placing official government seizure stickers across the high glass entrance doors.
"You are throwing your own family onto the street, Harrison!" she shrieked, her high-society mask entirely gone.
"This house is a monument to our family's social standing! You cannot unilaterally dissolve my residency!"
"This house was bought with the capital you siphoned from Khloe’s private trust," I said, walking up the steps.
I wore an immaculate black trench coat, my posture perfectly aligned, my mind entirely free of any familial pity.
I handed her the final administrative eviction notice, the paper crisp and unyielding under the morning sun.
"The furniture, the land, and the nameplate belong entirely to the restricted fund managed by my office," I added.
May you like
She looked at me, her eyes filling with a sudden, desperate panic as she realized her social empire was dead.
The moving crew began carrying out her designer wardrobes, packing her pretense into the back of a common truck.
