In Maui, the trio was living like royalty in a five star resort, completely oblivious to the trap I had set. Gertrude stood on her balcony overlooking the ocean, laughing about how she had finally put me in my place.
“This is how we deserve to live,” she told Felicity, who was busy posting photos of her new Gucci bags on social media. Dominic sat at a fancy dinner, drinking expensive scotch and choosing to forget the image of his wife bleeding on the floor.
They joked about whether I had managed to call a taxi or if I was still “throwing a tantrum” at home with a newborn. “If she complains when we get back, I will just remind her who owns that house,” Gertrude bragged, unaware she was now homeless.
On the sixth day of their trip, the hammer finally fell. They were at a high end mall when Felicity’s card was declined for a ten thousand dollar watch.
“This must be a mistake, try it again,” she demanded, but the machine beeped with a persistent error. Dominic tried his card, then Gertrude tried hers, but every single one of them had been remotely deactivated.
Panic set in as they realized they had no cash and no way to pay for their final night or their return flights. Dominic tried to call me dozens of times, but I had blocked his number and went straight to voicemail.
He had to beg a friend for a wire transfer just to get them three economy seats on a red eye flight back home. They landed at the regional airport looking haggard and broken, dragging their extra suitcases into a taxi.
When they arrived at the villa, Dominic tried his key, but it wouldn’t even fit into the lock. I had replaced the entire system with a high tech digital keypad that glowed with a mocking green light.
“What is this? Why won’t the door open?” Gertrude shrieked, banging her fists against the wood.
Then they saw it; a massive “SOLD” sign was bolted to the gate, with a notice stating “Private Property: No Trespassing.” A burly man named Silas, whom the new owner had hired for security, stepped out of the shadows.
“What are you doing on my property?” Silas growled, his arms crossed over a massive chest.
“Your property? This is my son’s house,” Gertrude yelled, but Silas simply shoved a copy of the deed into Dominic’s shaking hands.
“The owner is Arthur Sterling, and he bought it from a woman named Valerie five days ago,” Silas stated coldly. “Now get off this land before I call the police.”
He signaled to two other men, who grabbed their suitcases and tossed them onto the sidewalk, where several burst open and spilled expensive silk robes into the dirt. Neighbors began peeking out of their windows, whispering and laughing at the “aristocrats” who were now standing in the gutter.
They ended up spending the night on a park bench, arguing and blaming each other for the catastrophe. “This is your fault, Mother,” Dominic screamed. “You pushed her too far and now we have nothing.”
The next day, they stormed the hospital and found my room, but two bodyguards blocked the entrance to the VIP wing. I eventually agreed to see them, rolling out in a wheelchair with Leo in my arms and Bridget by my side.
“How could you do this, Valerie?” Dominic sobbed, falling to his knees. “I am your husband and this is your son.”
“You ceased to be my husband the moment you locked that door,” I replied, my voice as sharp as a diamond. Bridget handed him the divorce papers along with a criminal summons for child endangerment and failure to provide assistance.
“The game is over, Dominic,” I said, signaling the guards to escort them out. “I never want to see any of you again.”
In the four years since that day, I have built a multi million dollar fashion empire and founded a charity for single mothers. I am now married to a wonderful man named Marcus, an architect who loves Leo as if he were his own.
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