Chapter four

Leo's POV

“I don’t know who he is. Maybe he’s lost or something,” the man said, looking back over his shoulder toward the hallway where the voice had come from.

“Lost?” I spat the word out, my voice thick with a mix of sarcasm and growing rage. I felt a vein throbbing in my temple. “You must be out of your mind. You’re the one who’s lost, buddy. This is my house. My mansion. I built every inch of this place with my hard-earned money. Now get the hell out before I lose my temper.”

The man didn't move. He didn't even look bothered. He leaned against the doorframe, looking at me with something that felt dangerously like pity.

“Nigga,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I don’t know what you’re smoking, but this house is in my name now. I bought it a month ago, in cash. Everything was handled through the proper channels. Legally, that makes me the owner. Legally, you’re standing on my private property.”

He adjusted his position, his muscular frame blocking the view of the foyer. “Now, would you mind finding your way out of here on your own, or should I call the cops and have them drag you off my porch?”

“You’re mistaken!” I felt my legs starting to vibrate, a strange, uncontrollable shaking that started in my knees. “This is a mistake. My wife and kids live here. Helen! Helen, get out here right now!”

The man let out a short, dry laugh. “Hey, nigga, what the fuck is wrong with you? Didn't you hear me? A woman by the name of Helen Whitmore sold this house to me last month. She had every legal paper, every signature, and a power of attorney that cleared the whole thing in record time. I have the deed in my safe. You don’t live here anymore.”

I felt the world tilt. My brain was trying to process the words, but they wouldn't stick. Sold the house? Helen? That quiet, submissive woman wouldn't even know how to find a real estate agent, let alone sell a multi-million dollar mansion in France while I was away. It was impossible.

“Honey, who is he?”

A woman stepped out from behind the man. She was very pretty, a bit chubby in the way that showed she lived a comfortable life, and she was clearly dressed in her loungewear, looking right at home. She looked at me with wide, confused eyes.

“He says he owns the mansion,” the man told her, shaking his head. “Sounds crazy, right?”

“Crazy for real,” she whispered. She turned her gaze to me, and her expression hardened. “I’m sorry, mister, but this house is no longer yours. We have the papers. We paid for it. Please, find your way and never bother us again. We don't want to have to call the police for trespassing and harassment.”

“But… my furniture… my things…” I stammered, looking past them at the expensive chandelier I had picked out myself.

“The house was sold furnished,” the woman said coldly. “Whatever was left behind is ours now. That was the deal.” She turned to her husband, her tone softening instantly. “Honey, food is ready. Let's not let it get cold over this.”

She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he gave me one last warning look before pulling the door shut. I heard the heavy thud of the wood hitting the frame, followed by the distinct, final click of the electronic lock.

I stood there, staring at the door. I was waiting for the punchline. I was waiting for Helen to swing the door back open, laughing, telling me it was all an elaborate prank to get back at me for staying away so long. I waited for one minute. Two minutes. The silence of the neighborhood started to feel heavy, pressing in on my ears. The street was quiet, the sun was hot, and I was standing on a porch that didn't belong to me with a suitcase full of dirty laundry from Zanzibar.

My mind was numb. I felt like I was moving through thick fog. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, my fingers fumbling with the screen. I needed to call Helen. This had to be a dream. I probably fell asleep on the plane and I was having some sort of vivid nightmare.

I dialed her number.

Ring… ring… ring…

It went to voicemail. I dialed again. And again. Ten times, I hit the call button, but she didn't pick up.

I eventually lost the strength in my legs and sank down into the corner of the porch, sitting on the cold stone. Where was I supposed to go? My other properties were still under construction—shell companies and half-finished projects that weren't livable. I had bank accounts, sure, but I needed to understand what was happening.

“Is this a joke?” I whispered to the empty driveway. “Helen, where are you?”

Just as I was about to spiral into a full-blown panic attack, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was an incoming call.

Helen.

I swiped the screen so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

“Hello? Helen? Are you out of your mind?” I screamed into the receiver, my voice cracking with fury. “What is going on? There are people in our house! They’re claiming you sold the place! Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in? I am coming for you, do you hear me? Where are the kids?”

I was vibrating with rage, my chest heaving as I waited for her to start crying, to start apologizing, to give me that weak, trembling voice I had dominated for eight years.

But the line remained quiet.

There was no sobbing. No pleading. Just a silence so deep it felt predatory. I stopped shouting, pulling the phone away from my ear for a second to see if she had hung up. The call was still active.

“Are you done barking?”

The words sent a physical shiver down my spine. In our eight years of marriage, Helen had never spoken to me like that. Not once. Her voice wasn't weak. It wasn't the voice of the girl I "picked up from the gutter." It was mean. It was steady. It was filled with a cold, calculated hatred that made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Helen?” I whispered, my bravado vanishing.

“Now listen to me carefully, Leonard Whitmore,” she said, and hearing her use my full name made my heart skip a beat. “I have sold everything. The house, the cars, the shares in the companies that were in our joint names. Everything that was legally mine to touch, I have touched. I have emptied the accounts you thought I didn't know about. I have the kids, and they are far away from you.”

“You can’t do that!” I yelled, though it sounded pathetic even to my own ears. “That’s my money! I made you!”

“You didn't make me, Leo. You broke me,” she snapped back. “But the pieces I have left are enough to ruin you. I’m done with your nonsense. I’m done with the beatings, the infections, and the disrespect. I have decided to right my wrongs, and believe me when I tell you, Leonard… I am just getting started.”