The next morning, Michael walked into the kitchen in his robe, coffee mug in hand, whistling like nothing happened. He didn’t know I was gone. Didn’t even bother checking.

I watched him from Eleanor’s car—tinted windows parked just down the street. My hands were warm now, wrapped around a porcelain mug of tea. Eleanor sat beside me, pristine and focused.

“You’re sure you want to watch this?” she asked. “Yes.”

At exactly 8:00 AM, two black SUVs pulled up in front of the house. Behind them, a flatbed truck with the logo Preston Development Group.

A man in a fitted navy suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. James. He knocked once on the door.

Michael answered, confused. “Yeah?”

“Michael Harris?”

“Yes…”

“I’m here on behalf of Eleanor Preston, legal owner of this property as of 7:45 this morning.”

Michael blinked. “What are you talking about?

This is my house.”

James raised a brow. “Actually, the deed was purchased this morning. Quiet sale.

You failed to refinance in time. Eleanor made an offer the bank couldn’t refuse.”

I saw it hit him. Like a wave.

He stepped outside in his robe, eyes wide. “You can’t do this!”

“Oh, we already did,” James replied calmly. “And she has plans.”

Michael’s voice rose.

“Where’s my wife?!”

Eleanor stepped out of the car, composed as ever. “She’s not your concern anymore.”

He stared at her, then at me, still in the back seat. “You crazy old witch—”

Eleanor didn’t flinch.

She nodded to James. “Proceed.”

I’ll never forget the sound of the first crack as the hydraulic claw began tearing into the garage. Michael screamed, running toward it, arms flailing.

Workers held him back as pieces of drywall and shattered glass hit the pavement. Neighbors gathered in disbelief. Some filmed.