I didn’t call the police.
I picked up the gift box…
And I walked out.
The next morning, at 8:06 a.m., I called my lawyer.
At 8:23, I called my company.
At 9:10, the house was discreetly placed on private sale.
At 11:49…
while my son was sitting in his office believing his life was safe,
I signed the papers.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
I already knew why.
Because someone had just knocked on the front door of that mansion.
And they were not there visiting.
I answered the fourth ringer.
“Who the hell is in my house?” he shouted.
I lay down in my chair.
Those papers were still drying next to me.
“They are the representatives of the new owner,” I said calmly.
“You shouldn’t make them wait.”
Silence.
Then panic.
“You can’t do this!” he said. “That’s my home!”
I almost smiled.
“My house,” I repeated. “What a curious word.”
Then I told him the truth.
“I had every right to sell it. The same right I had when I paid for it. The same right I had yesterday… when you beat me thirty times in a house that was never yours.”
He kept quiet.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“I have already done it.”
And I hung up.
That same afternoon, everything started to collapse.
The locks were being changed.
The staff was confused.
The illusion was gone.
