Chapter 4: The Stroke of Midnight
Back in the sky-high glass cage, panic had begun to set in.
Richard was leaning over the marble kitchen island, holding a blood-soaked towel to his face. The pain was excruciating, radiating through his skull, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation.
Eleanor was pacing frantically, still wearing the blood-splattered teal dress. She was pressing her phone to her ear, her manicured fingers trembling violently.
"It's going straight to voicemail!" Eleanor shrieked, slamming the phone down on the counter. "Call the police, Richard! Have her arrested for assault! She is a maniac!"
"I can't call the police, Mother," Richard hissed through the towel, his voice nasally and thick with blood. "If the press gets ahold of this, my investors will pull out. I'll handle her. She’ll come crawling back. She has nowhere else to go."
Richard pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing his private wealth manager. He needed to move funds, to secure a hotel suite at the Plaza, to show Victoria he didn't need her.
The call connected. "This number is no longer in service," an automated voice chimed.
Richard froze. He tried his banking app. Access Denied. He tried his corporate email. Account Suspended.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. "What did she do..." he whispered.
Before he could process the error messages, a heavy, electronic clunk echoed through the penthouse. The ambient lighting shifted from a warm amber to a harsh, blinding emergency white. The smart-home system, which controlled the temperature, the blinds, and the locks, suddenly went dead.
Then, the private elevator chimed.
Eleanor spun around, her face pale. "Is that her? Richard, if that is her, you tell her she is—"
The elevator doors opened, but Victoria did not step out.
Instead, eight men in immaculate black suits filed into the penthouse. They moved with terrifying, synchronized precision, fanning out across the living room. They were not police. They wore earpieces and carried themselves with the lethal confidence of highly paid private military contractors.
The lead security officer, a broad-shouldered man with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, stepped forward. He did not introduce himself. He looked at his watch. It was 11:45 PM.
"Mr. Scullion. Mrs. Scullion," the man said, his voice flat and booming. "You are currently trespassing on private property owned by the Sterling Trust. You have exactly ten minutes to vacate the premises."
"Trespassing?!" Eleanor screamed, her voice hitting a hysterical pitch. "This is my son's home! Who the hell are you?! Get out before I call security!"
"We are the security, ma'am," the man replied coldly. "And this property does not belong to your son. Your access codes have been revoked. Your vehicles in the garage have been impounded. You will leave immediately, or you will be physically removed."
Richard dropped the bloody towel, staring at the men in absolute disbelief. The illusion of his power, his wealth, his entire identity, was evaporating in real-time. "You can't do this. I have rights! I'm her husband!"
The officer took a step closer to Richard, towering over him. The look in the contractor's eyes made Richard’s blood run cold.
"You have five minutes."
At exactly 11:58 PM, the heavy service doors of the residential tower opened on the ground floor. It was raining—a freezing, unforgiving November downpour.
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Richard and Eleanor were shoved roughly out onto the wet pavement. They had no coats, no wallets, and no phones. Eleanor stood shivering in her ruined teal dress, the rain washing the dried blood down her neck. Richard stood beside her, barefoot, his nose throbbing in agony, watching the massive glass doors of the building lock electronically from the inside.
Midnight struck. The Scullions were finally exactly what they were before they met Victoria: absolute nobodies, standing in the cold.
