Chapter 16
The following morning,
I drove back to the suburban house that was now legally mine,
accompanied by a professional locksmith I had hired early that day.
As I pulled into the driveway,
I noticed Scott's sleek red sports car was missing,
likely repossessed already or hidden away somewhere by his frantic creditors.
I walked up to the front porch,
watching as the locksmith quickly and efficiently replaced the deadbolts on the heavy wooden door,
ensuring that Scott's old keys would never work again.
Once the new keys were handed to me,
I stepped inside the quiet foyer,
the familiar scent of the house hitting me instantly.
But this time,
the atmosphere didn't feel oppressive or suffocating,
instead feeling like a blank canvas waiting for a brand-new story to be written.
I walked into the living room,
expecting to find a complete mess,
but instead found Scott sitting on a packed cardboard box in the center of the room.
He looked utterly disheveled,
wearing the same clothes from the courtroom yesterday,
his hair messy and his eyes hollow with exhaustion.
Surrounding him were several garbage bags filled with his clothes,
the only items he was permitted to take under the judge's strict order.
He looked up as I entered,
a flicker of desperate hope appearing in his dull eyes before it quickly died out.
"Avery,"
he whispered,
his voice hoarse and raspy,
"I packed everything like the judge said."
"I just...
I don't know where to go,"
he admitted,
staring down at his hands which were stained with dirt.
"My credit cards have been frozen by the bank,"
he revealed,
confirming my theory about his massive bridge loans.
"The car dealership took back the sports car this morning,"
he mumbled,
"and Kayla...
Kayla blocked my number and changed the locks on her apartment."
"She told me if I come near her,
she will call the police,"
he sobbed,
a pathetic tear falling down his stubbled cheek.
"I have nothing left,
Avery,"
he whimpered,
looking up at me as if expecting me to offer him comfort or money.
I stood near the doorway,
keeping a safe distance,
my expression completely neutral and detached.
"You have your clothes,
Scott,"
I pointed out coldly,
refusing to let his pathetic display soften my resolve.
"And you have your freedom to live the life you wanted,"
I added,
"the life without me interfering."
"But how am I supposed to survive?!"
he suddenly snapped,
a brief flash of his old anger returning to his voice.
"I owe the bank over two hundred thousand dollars for those loans!"
he shouted,
"they are going to sue me!
I'll go bankrupt!"
"That is a problem for you and your lawyer to solve,"
I replied calmly,
refusing to match his emotional outburst.
"Your forty-eight hours are almost up,
Scott,"
I reminded him,
checking my watch with a deliberate,
slow movement.
"The moving truck will be here shortly to take your bags to a storage unit,"
I informed him,
"and I suggest you be gone before they arrive."
He stared at me for a long moment,
realizing that his manipulation tactics would never work on me again.
The weak,
compliant woman he had married was dead,
replaced by an iron-willed survivor who owed him absolutely nothing.
He stood up slowly,
picking up two of the heavy garbage bags,
and walked dragging his feet toward the front door.
As he passed by me,
he stopped for a brief second,
as if wanting to say something else,
but I simply stepped aside,
clearing his path to the exit.
He walked out into the afternoon sun,
a broken shadow of the man he used to be,
and I closed the heavy door behind him,
May you like
turning the new lock with a satisfying,
solid click.
