Chapter 2 - The Eviction & The Ultimatum
Z
The quiet rage radiating off Abigail Prescott was not a fleeting emotional flare; it was a cold, calculated freeze. In the world of high-stakes digital publishing, she dealt daily with ruthless media moguls, predatory contract clauses, and entitled influencers who mistook leverage for power. Dealing with Logan and his mother was no longer a domestic quarrel—it was an hostile invasion, and Abigail was executing a swift, surgical countermeasure.
"Forty minutes," Abigail repeated, her voice cutting through the ambient drone of the penthouse HVAC like a razor through silk. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The quiet authority in her tone made Logan cringe back as if struck. "Not forty-one. If either of your feet are still on my property when the clock hits nine o'clock, I will not call the building management. I will press charges for illegal trespassing, harassment, and grand larceny for the four thousand dollars you borrowed from our shared event fund last month, Logan."
Logan’s eyes widened in sheer panic. "Larceny? Abigail, baby, come on! That was an advance for the catering deposit for the agency!"
"An agency that hasn't registered a single dollar in revenue in two quarters," Abigail countered smoothly, pulling up a secondary folder on her desktop. "An agency where you are the sole signatory on an account that transferred three thousand dollars directly to an individual named 'Bernice Gable' three weeks ago. Did you think I didn't notice the discrepancy during my quarterly tax audit?"
Bernice stepped in front of her son, her chest heaving underneath her stained, floral-print jacket. Her eyes were tiny beads of malicious fury. "You think you’re so high and mighty with your legal talk! He’s your man! You slept in the same bed with him! In the real world, a wife supports her husband and his family, she doesn't drag him into court over pocket change! Logan, don't you dare touch that mop. Let’s see her call the cops on her own fiancé. Let’s see how the press likes it when senior editorial director Abigail Prescott throws a helpless old woman onto the streets!"
"Try me," Abigail said softly, pointing toward the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty morning skyline of San Diego. "The San Diego Union-Tribune’s legal editor happens to be a close friend of mine. I’m sure she’d love a human-interest piece about a leeching mother-son duo attempting to orchestrate a real estate takeover via marriage fraud. It makes for fantastic SEO."
Logan grabbed his mother's arm, his fingers digging into her sleeve. "Mom, stop! Shut up! You don't know her! She’s not bluffing!"
"She's scared, Logan!" Bernice barked, swatting his hand away. "She’s thirty-five! She’s terrified of being single again! Look at her! She thinks her little career will keep her warm at night when she’s forty? She needs you more than you need her!"
That was the final, fatal miscalculation. Abigail didn't flinch. She simply picked up her phone, dialed a speed-dial entry, and put it on speakerphone.
"Security desk, this is Marcus," a crisp, professional voice echoed into the room.
"Marcus, good morning. This is Abigail Prescott in Penthouse B," she said calmly. "I currently have two unauthorized intruders in my residence who are refusing to vacate and are actively damaging my oak flooring. I need two armed guards up here immediately with a carpet protection kit, and please inform building staff that Logan Vance’s access badge is revoked permanently as of this second."
"Right away, Ms. Prescott. Patrol is on the elevator."
The line clicked dead.
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. Bernice gasped, her face turning a dark, mottled purple, while Logan looked like he was going to vomit right onto the stained foyer.
"You... you revoked my key?" Logan stuttered, his voice breaking into an embarrassing pitch. "Abigail, all my clothes are in the walk-in! My laptop, my work files—"
"Will be packed into standard cardboard boxes and left with the concierge by noon," Abigail instructed, walking back to her kitchen island and picking up her half-empty mug of coffee. It was lukewarm, but she drank it anyway, letting the bitter taste settle on her tongue. "You have two minutes before Marcus arrives. I suggest you pick up those dripping canvas bags and step into the elevator voluntarily, unless you want to be escorted out in handcuffs in front of the tenant council."
Bernice snatched her greasy canvas bag, her face twisted in pure venom. "You are a cold, heartless bitch! You hear me? A heartless, ungrateful bitch! My son gave you his best years! He downgraded himself for you!"
"Your son is thirty-two and lived in a rented studio with three roommates before I let him crash on my sofa," Abigail replied with lethal precision. "The door is behind you."
When the elevator doors chimed open in the private foyer, Marcus and a second security officer stepped out, taking in the scene with trained, unblinking eyes—the mud, the stench, the screaming mother, and the ice-cold woman standing behind the marble counter.
"Please escort these individuals to the street," Abigail told Marcus, without looking back at Logan. "And ensure they do not re-enter the parking structure."
"Understood, Ms. Prescott," Marcus said, stepping between Logan and the inner corridor. "Sir, ma'am, this way."
Logan tried to reach out to touch Abigail's shoulder as he was herded backward. "Abigail, please! Just let me explain! It was just talk! I love you!"
Abigail turned her back on him, picking up her phone to dial her personal attorney. The heavy brass doors of the private elevator slid shut with a deep, definitive thud, severing the connection entirely.
Left alone in the quiet apartment, Abigail stood still for a long moment. She looked down at the dark, greasy mud dragging across her pale white oak floors, at the dead earthworm squashed against the varnish, and at the absolute disaster her life had almost become.
She didn't cry. She didn't break down.
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Instead, she pulled out a box of rubber gloves, grabbed a bottle of floor disinfectant, and opened a fresh document on her computer titled: Legal Assets & Damages Assessment: Logan Vance.
If Logan Vance thought he could simply walk away after plotting to steal her life's work, he was about to learn a very expensive lesson about the woman he had so foolishly underestimated.
