Chapter 3 - The Ambush at the Townhouse
“She’s what?” I yelled into the phone, the sheer absurdity of the situation piercing through my shock. “Dad, are you out of your mind? Stop her!”
“I tried!” Dad cried, the sound of a slamming door echoing faintly in the background. “She locked me out of the Mercedes! She’s completely unhinged, Emily, she’s screaming about lawyers, fraud, and police reports—you need to get out of the house or call the authorities—”
Click.
The line went dead.
I stared at the black screen of my phone, my chest heaving. Ethan was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans with grim determination.
“What is it?” Ethan demanded, his eyes dark. “What did your dad say?”
“She knows about the new house,” I said, my voice shaking as I threw off the duvet. “Lauren looked up the county registry. Mom thinks we stole the money to buy it, and she’s driving over here right now. She’s completely losing her mind.”
Ethan let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his morning-rumpled hair. “Stole the money? Does she forget your grandmother’s trust fund? Or does she genuinely believe the entire universe revolves around her bank statements?”
“She believes whatever suits her narrative,” I snapped, rushing to the hallway mirror to pull my hair into a hurried ponytail. “Ethan, we need to wake Lily. If my mother comes here in this state, she’s going to scream, smash things, and terrify our daughter. I am not letting her near Lily again after last night.”
Before Ethan could answer, a sharp, violent sound shattered the quiet morning air outside.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
A blaring, aggressive car horn echoed from our suburban street, followed by the heavy crunch of tires slamming onto our driveway gravel.
We rushed to the front window and parted the blinds.
Parked directly behind Ethan’s car—blocking us in completely—was my mother’s silver Mercedes SUV. Diane was already out of the vehicle, slamming the driver’s side door so hard the side mirror vibrated. She didn't look like a mother coming to visit; she looked like an invading army. Her hair was wild, her designer coat unbuttoned in the freezing air, and her face distorted by pure, unadulterated rage.
“Stay here,” Ethan said calmly, placing a firm, heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’ll handle her.”
“No,” I said, my spine straightening as a cold, fierce resolve replaced my panic. “This is my family, Ethan. It ends today. Both of us.”
Before Diane could even reach our front porch, the doorbell began to ring in rapid, violent succession—a relentless, stuttering ding-dong-ding-dong that vibrated through the frame of the house.
I walked down the stairs, my heart beating like a war drum, and threw the front door open wide.
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Diane stood on our welcome mat, her hand raised to ring the bell again. She froze, her arm hovering in mid-air, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Behind her, across the street, a neighbor was walking a golden retriever and openly stopping to stare at the commotion.
“Well,” Diane snarled, her voice dripping with venom. “You actually decided to open the door, thief.”
