At 8:06 in the morning, my husband handed me a trash bag and told me I had until nine to collect

The party at Crown Tower started at eight o’clock on Tuesday night.

I didn't have to guess. Tessa Vale was broadcasting every second of it to her ninety thousand followers. She had spent the last seventy-two hours playing the consummate Manhattan hostess, transforming my minimalist, book-lined sanctuary into a garish spectacle of white roses, rented brass furniture, and rented people.

Grant had invited twelve of his largest investors, along with several junior executives from Mercer Logistics. He was pitching them on what he called the "Apex Expansion"—a private equity round that would supposedly buy out his silent partners and make the company completely independent.

He didn't know that his silent partner was currently sitting in a private dining room at the Carlyle, reviewing the final repossession warrants.

"Look at this," Sarah Lin murmured, turning her tablet toward me.

On the screen, Tessa was holding a livestream. She was wearing a slinky emerald green backless gown that had cost more than my first car. She leaned into the camera, laughing, a glass of champagne in one hand, while Grant stood behind her in a Tom Ford tuxedo, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist.

"We just wanted to thank everyone for coming," Tessa cooed into the microphone of her phone. "Sometimes in life, you have to clear out the stagnant energy to make room for abundance. True success isn't just about business; it’s about having a partner who matches your frequency."

Grant kissed her cheek. The comments were scrolling at lightning speed.

*Power couple!*

*So much better than his boring ex.*

*Where did she even go? Did he leave her anything?*

Grant smiled for the camera—that smooth, rehearsed smile that had made me fall in love with him in my twenties, the smile that convinced you that as long as you were on his side, nothing in the world could harm you.

"To the future," Grant said, raising his glass to the room of twenty people gathered in my living room. "To ownership. To building something that no one can ever take away from you."

"Are the papers filed?" I asked Samuel.

"Filed at four-thirty-two with the Southern District clerk," Samuel said, cutting into a piece of roasted sea bass. "Served on building security at seven-fifteen. The sheriff’s deputies are downstairs in the lobby as we speak."

"And the board?"

"Crown Tower is an ultra-exclusive co-op," Samuel said. "The co-op board does not take kindly to unauthorized tenants. Especially unauthorized tenants throwing promotional influencer parties while subletting under a fraudulent corporate lease."

I checked my watch. It was 8:44 PM.

Sixteen minutes until the hour. Exactly twelve hours after Grant had handed me a trash bag and given me fifty-four minutes to vanish.

"Let's watch the rest of the stream," I said.

On the screen, the music was suddenly cut short.

The chatter in the penthouse dipped. Tessa frowned, lowering her champagne flute. "Babe? Did the sound system disconnect?"

Grant walked toward the foyer, looking irritated. "Marcus was supposed to have the private audio channels locked. Excuse me, everyone."

The camera followed him. Tessa, ever the content creator, kept the feed rolling, walking backward down the marble corridor to capture Grant handling the situation with his signature masculine authority.

He opened the double mahogany doors of the penthouse.

Standing in the private vestibule were not building maintenance workers. Standing there was Deputy Inspector Vance of the Manhattan Sheriff’s Office, flanked by two armed deputies, and Mr. Henderson, the notoriously ruthless president of the Crown Tower Board of Directors.

"Grant Mercer?" Inspector Vance asked, holding a clipboard.

Grant blinked, his jaw tightening. "Inspector? What is the meaning of this? I’m hosting a private dinner for our corporate stakeholders. If there’s a noise complaint—"

"This is not a noise complaint, Mr. Mercer," Henderson said. His voice was loud, carrying cleanly into the living room where twelve high-net-worth investors were suddenly dead silent. "This is an emergency order of immediate ejectment."

Grant let out a sharp, condescending bark of laughter. "An ejectment? Henderson, are you out of your mind? I own this unit. I’ve lived here for seven years."

"You do not own this unit," Inspector Vance said. He stepped forward, thrusting a stamped judicial order into Grant’s chest. "You are an occupant under a revocable sub-lease held by Mercer Logistics via Highfield Maritime. That sub-lease was formally revoked at 4:30 PM today due to fraudulent misrepresentation and structural default. The proprietary leaseholder has demanded immediate possession."

Tessa gasped behind the camera. The phone shook violently.

"Turn that damn camera off!" Grant hissed, his face turning an alarming shade of mottled purple.

"Grant, what is he talking about?" Tessa whimpered. "You said you bought this place before you even met Eleanor!"

"I did!" Grant roared, his composure cracking down the center like cheap glass. "Henderson, call security! Get these men out of my home!"

"Security is already downstairs, Mr. Mercer," Henderson replied with ice in his tone. "They are currently loading your personal effects into cardboard boxes in the freight staging area. You have fifteen minutes to clear your guests from the premises. If these people are not out of this building by nine o'clock, they will be escorted out in handcuffs for criminal trespass."

The livestream didn't end.

Tessa dropped the phone onto the entryway console, but the lens remained angled toward the hall. Tens of thousands of viewers watched in real-time as Grant Mercer’s investors began grabbing their coats in frantic silence, avoiding his eyes as they rushed for the elevator.

I took a slow sip of my water.