“You called our mother the maid, and made her scrub floors while you slept in her master bedroom,” I said, my voice stone cold, every word deliberate. “You ceased being my family the moment you treated her like a servant.”
The security guards stepped in, supervising Julian and Kloe as they were given exactly twenty minutes to pack two suitcases each with basic personal clothing. Everything else, their designer bags bought with stolen funds, their luxury furniture, their electronics, was locked inside the estate pending our civil asset audit, untouchable now, frozen in place like evidence at a crime scene, which, in a very real sense, it was.
Precisely at nine-thirty, Julian and Kloe were escorted off the property by the police officer, dragging their suitcases down the driveway in the dark, weeping and fighting with each other, already turning on one another before they’d even reached the gate, as the heavy iron gates slammed shut behind them with a finality that echoed across the quiet neighborhood.
