The taxi peeled away from the rain-slicked curb, leaving me alone in front of my own Beacon Hill townhome. It was 11:30 PM, and the gaslights usually cast a warm glow. Tonight, they only highlighted the two dark figures standing by my front door.
Private security.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull thud in the quiet street. I walked up the three stone steps, my shoes squelching softly.
“Eleanor Aldridge,” I said, my voice thin against the sound of the retreating rain. “This is my home.”
One of the guards, a hulking man with a shaved head, stepped forward. His expression was flat, his eyes devoid of recognition.
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he rumbled. “Aldridge BioHealth has executed an emergency corporate asset freeze on all residential properties owned by the family trust.”
He gestured vaguely at the electronic keypad beside the door. “Access codes have been re-programmed.”
I reached for my purse, fumbling for my key card, a reflex. Then I remembered the bank card alerts, the chime of my phone as I got into the taxi.
Declined.
My hands trembled. I pulled out my wallet, counting the few crumpled bills inside. Forty-two dollars. That was it. My entire liquid worth, after decades.
I stood on the wet sidewalk, the cold seeping into my bones, the metallic flash drive heavy and inert in my hand. Julian hadn’t just humiliated me. He had declared total financial warfare, swift and complete, within hours.
My home, the place where I had raised my children, was now a fortress against me. I turned and started walking, the rain beginning to fall harder again, toward the faint neon glow of a 24-hour diner down the street.
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