Chapter 2 - The Repossession of Ethan’s World
While Ethan and Diane were finishing their overpriced artisan salads and congratulating themselves on how efficiently they had managed to put me in my place, the real world was catching up to them with the speed of a freight train.
My father’s security detail dropped me off at his secure suburban estate just outside the city. The moment we walked through the heavy double doors, a team of medical professionals—personally vetted by my father—stepped forward to examine my stitches and help me settle into a quiet, sunlit guest room. Noah was whisked away to a nursery where my aunt, a pediatric nurse, eagerly took over feeding and changing duties, letting me finally close my eyes without worrying about whether someone would demand I get up and make dinner.
Meanwhile, across town, the trap was springing shut.
Ethan’s luxury lunch with his parents wrapped up around 2:00 PM. According to the GPS tracker I had secretly installed on the SUV months ago—after noticing mysterious late-night trips he couldn't explain—his vehicle was parked directly in the valet lot of the Drake Hotel.
My attorney, a sharp-tongued corporate litigator named Marcus Vance, had acted with ruthless efficiency. By the time Ethan walked out of the hotel lobby, loosening his tie and laughing at some sarcastic remark his sister made about my "helplessness," a black tow truck and two corporate representatives were already waiting by the driver's side door of my black SUV.
Ethan froze, his smile dying instantly.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Ethan shouted, jogging across the asphalt as the tow truck driver hooked the rear axle. "That's my car! Step away from the vehicle!"
The woman standing by the tow truck—one of Marcus’s senior associates—did not flinch. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, pulled a thick manila folder from her briefcase, and flipped open the title document.
"Are you Ethan Morgan?" she asked, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"I'm Ethan Vance-Morgan, yes! And you're committing grand theft auto! I'm calling the police right now—"
"Don't bother," she interrupted smoothly, holding up the certified title bearing my maiden name: Claire Elizabeth Morgan. "This vehicle is registered solely to Claire Morgan. The insurance, the registration, and the purchase ledger confirm zero financial contribution from you, Mr. Morgan. Furthermore, we have an order of repossession signed by a judge, effective immediately."
Diane rushed forward, her face turning a mottled shade of crimson. "Listen here, you little chippie! My son uses this vehicle for his business meetings! His wife is just some hormonal stay-at-home mother who doesn't know anything about real estate or assets! Give us those keys right now or we'll—"
"Or you'll what, ma'am?" the associate asked, raising an eyebrow. "File a complaint? Feel free. But if you touch this tow truck or obstruct these workers, I will have local law enforcement arrest you for trespassing and interference with private property."
Ethan looked around wildly, suddenly realizing that a crowd of wealthy hotel patrons had stopped to watch the spectacle. His face burned bright red. He grabbed the associate's arm—a massive mistake.
From behind the tow truck, two large men in dark suits—former military operatives working under my father's private security division—stepped out of the shadows with terrifying speed. They didn't punch him; they simply stepped into his personal space, applying a textbook joint-lock that forced Ethan to release his grip and stumble backward with a yelp of pain.
"Do not lay a hand on her again," the larger operative growled, his voice dropping an octave into a chilling military register.
The tow truck lifted the rear wheels of the SUV off the ground, its diesel engine roaring to life. As the vehicle was towed away down Michigan Avenue, Ethan stood there gasping like a stranded fish, his pride shattered, his status symbol vanishing into traffic.
He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking with rage, and dialed my number.
It rang three times before I picked up, sitting comfortably in my father's sunroom with a cup of chamomile tea.
"Claire!" Ethan screamed the moment the line connected. "What the hell is wrong with you? Did you send repo men to steal my car in front of my parents? Have you lost your absolute mind?"
I took a slow sip of my tea, listening to the frantic panic in his voice with utter detachment.
"It's not your car, Ethan," I said softly. "It was never your car."
"I drive it every day! I pay for the gas!" he shrieked.
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"And now you can walk," I replied evenly. "Or take the bus. Twelve dollars should cover a few fares, shouldn't it?"
Before he could sputter another syllable, I hung up and blocked his number. But little did Ethan know, losing the SUV was only the appetizer. The main course was waiting for him at home.
