“Everyone,” I said calmly, “this is David Peterson, CEO of Peterson Tech, trespassing at my private residence and threatening property damage after our divorce was finalized.”
The camera changed everything. David froze. “Turn that off.”
“David,” I said, “we are divorced. The judge signed the decree. You assumed that paying a few utility bills would override our prenup. You were wrong.”
Then a calm voice came from the driveway. “Mr. Peterson, I strongly suggest you lower that bat.”
It was Arthur Sterling, my lawyer, flanked by two private security contractors.
David turned on him. “Who are you?”
“Miss Victoria’s legal counsel,” Arthur said. “Every threat you just made was recorded on cameras and broadcast publicly. If you continue, I will call 911.”
David slowly lowered the bat. “So what? I’ll sue.”
Arthur smiled and pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. “Excellent. We welcome your lawsuit. But first, you may want to look at this.”
He held up a glossy photograph of David with a young woman at the Beverly Hills Hotel, along with bank statements showing wire transfers, cash withdrawals, and hidden funds moved to his mother and brother before the divorce. David’s face drained of color.
Arthur continued. “Hidden marital assets. If we go back to court, my client can pursue the full amount, penalties, and attorney fees. You have two options. Settle her share and legal fees by tomorrow, or I file an emergency motion at eight a.m.”
The bat slipped from David’s hand and clattered against the pavement. He knew the threats were real. He had already given the money away.
“Nobody backed you into a corner, David,” I said from the balcony. “I am simply demanding what is legally mine.”
Arthur stepped aside. “You have twenty-four hours. Now take your family and leave my client’s private property.”
David looked defeated. “Let’s go,” he muttered. “The circus is over.”
They left in silence. Their shadows under the streetlights looked long, thin, and broken.
I ended the livestream and took a deep breath. Round one was mine. But greed does not disappear overnight. Savannah had not made her move yet.
That night, I armed the estate security system to maximum and sat in the empty living room, watching the camera feeds. Somewhere in a diner, I knew they were plotting. I later learned the details from Savannah’s police report.
David sat in a booth with his head in his hands. Brenda cried over the mansion she had lost. Kyle complained about his car, and Savannah came up with the brilliant idea of climbing the back wall from a public hiking trail.
“She lives alone,” Savannah reportedly said. “Her security system is probably a bluff.”
At one in the morning, my backyard camera lit up. A dark figure dropped from the wall onto the manicured lawn. Savannah. The rat was in the maze.
The moment her feet hit the grass, the perimeter sensors tripped. Floodlights blasted the backyard bright as a stadium, and the alarm tore through the night. Savannah froze in terror. She tried to climb back over the wall, but panic took her down to the grass.
Within minutes, private security arrived. I opened the gates for them remotely and stepped onto the patio. Savannah lay on the lawn, trembling. Beside her was a pair of heavy bolt cutters.
“I was just looking for my lost cat,” she babbled.