Five Days After I Ended Things With My Ex, a Ruthless Stranger Demanded I Vacate My Late Father's House — But My Inheritance Papers and a Court Appraiser Shocked Them All
The workshop was a mess of shattered glass and crimson paint, but thanks to Sienna’s timely tip, the structural damage was minimal. The police had taken my statement, photographed the scene, and promised to follow up on Julian’s dropped clipboard.
That night, sleep was impossible. I sat at my computer, reviewing the high-definition security footage from the workshop’s new night-vision cameras. The feed from the front camera clearly showed the two masked vandals, their clumsy attempts at destruction, and their hasty retreat when the sirens blared.
Then, the feed switched to the internal camera, focused on my desk area. The clock in the corner of the screen showed it was just past 2 AM. A shadowy figure materialized, moving hesitantly toward my desk drawers.
My breath hitched. It was Leo. He was using a spare key, one I’d forgotten he still possessed from our time together. He was wearing a dark hoodie, his face partially obscured, but there was no mistaking his nervous posture, his slight, almost frantic movements.
He began pulling open drawers, rifling through papers, clearly searching for something specific. He looked under my keyboard, then beneath the blotter. He wasn’t stealing tools; he was after documents. My inheritance contract. The very paper that gave me clear title to the house.
A slow, cold anger began to build in my chest. He wasn’t just Julian’s pawn; he was an active participant in this scheme, breaking into my workshop, attempting to destroy the legal proof of my ownership. After all his desperate pleas, his broken promises, this was his true loyalty.
I found the button for the workshop’s external intercom system, a feature my father had installed years ago for communication with delivery drivers. I pressed it, my finger steady.
My voice, amplified and distorted, boomed through the quiet street from the workshop’s exterior speakers.
“Leo Kincaid!” I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the night. “What are you doing in my workshop at two o’clock in the morning?”
Leo froze. He spun around, his head snapping towards the camera, his eyes wide with terror. He clearly hadn’t known the intercom was active, or that I was watching.
“I can see you, Leo,” I continued, my voice unwavering. “I can see you rifling through my desk, searching for the contract. The one that proves this house is mine, not Julian Brock’s, and certainly not yours.”
He stumbled back, knocking over a small stack of lumber samples. The sound reverberated through the speakers.
“Get out of my workshop, Leo,” I commanded, my voice gaining strength. “Now. Before I call the police. You have no right to be here, no right to touch my property, and no right to destroy evidence.”
He stared at the camera for another long second, a figure caught in the harsh glare of exposure. His shoulders sagged. The frantic energy drained from him, replaced by utter humiliation. He dropped the drawer he was holding, letting papers scatter across the floor.
Then, without another word, he turned and bolted for the alley door, disappearing into the darkness of the night. His frantic, desperate flight was broadcast across the entire block, a public spectacle of his cowardice.
I turned off the intercom, the sudden silence inside my house almost deafening. Julian had forced Leo to do his dirty work, but Leo had gone along with it, willingly breaking into my home. This wasn’t just Julian’s attack anymore; it was Leo’s betrayal. And now, I had concrete video evidence of both.
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