Chapter 4 - The House on Highland Park
At 2:45 PM, a battered yellow airport taxi pulled up to the formidable wrought-iron gates of 440 Sheridan Road, Highland Park.
Sebastian stepped out first. His cream wedding tuxedo was rumpled, stained with coffee near the collar, and smelled of cheap airplane cabin air. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw stubbled with dark, anxious growth.
Behind him emerged Alyssa, weeping softly, her bridal gown replaced by an oversized gray hoodie, her face pale and exhausted. Finally, Gloria hauled herself out of the cab, her seafoam dress wrinkled and her hair disheveled, swearing loudly at the driver as she dragged her designer rolling bag across the asphalt.
“I cannot believe we were forced to fly coach next to screaming toddlers!” Gloria shrieked, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. “Sebastian, get the gate open! I need a hot bath, a dry martini, and a masseuse right now!”
Sebastian walked briskly to the brass security pillar beside the gate. He placed his thumb against the biometric scanner.
*Beep. Beep. Access Denied.*
Sebastian frowned, wiping his thumb on his trousers. He pressed it down again.
*Beep. Beep. Access Denied.*
He punched in his eight-digit master PIN code.
*Error: Code Invalid. Security Dispatched.*
“What the hell?” Sebastian muttered, slamming his fist against the brass pillar. He looked up at the high-definition security camera mounted above the archway. “Open the gate! It’s Sebastian! Open the damn gate!”
The heavy pedestrian door beside the gate clicked. It didn’t swing open for him. Instead, two towering men wearing tactical vests with *Vance Executive Protection* embroidered on their chests stepped out onto the driveway.
“Step back from the perimeter, sir,” the lead guard commanded, his hand resting casually on his hip.
Sebastian puffed out his chest, his voice climbing an octave. “Do you have any idea who I am? I am Sebastian Carter! I live here! This is my house! Move aside and let me through!”
The guard didn’t blink. “This property is registered under Carter Residential Holdings. You are not an authorized occupant, tenant, or guest. You are currently trespassing on private property.”
“Trespassing?!” Gloria screamed, storming forward, her finger stabbing the air. “That is my son’s wife’s house! They are married! He has every legal right to be here! Get your hands off him before I have you arrested!”
“Madam, if you step across that yellow property line again, I will detain you for criminal trespass myself,” the guard said with chilling composure.
Alyssa stepped up beside Sebastian, clutching his arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Sebastian... what is going on? Where are we supposed to go? Where are our things?”
The second security guard stepped aside and pointed toward the curb fifty feet away.
There, stacked under the low-hanging branches of an ancient oak tree, sat thirty-two heavy-duty black construction trash bags. Attached to the top bag was a single white envelope with the word *SEBASTIAN* written in my crisp, unmistakable handwriting.
Sebastian stumbled toward the pile of garbage bags as if moving through a nightmare. He ripped open the top bag. Inside lay his bespoke Tom Ford suits, his handmade Italian leather shoes, his cashmere coats—all crumpled together like discarded rags.
He tore open the envelope.
Inside was not a letter of anguish. It was not a plea for explanation.
It was a single page: a formal Notice of Termination of Cohabitation, a copy of an emergency restraining order barring him from Carter Capital premises, and a printout of the Illinois criminal code regarding Bigamy and Corporate Grand Larceny.
Beneath the documents was a sticky note in black ink:
*“Did you really think the empire belonged to the king, Sebastian? The king was just a decoration. The queen owned the board.”*
Sebastian’s hands shook so violently the papers fluttered in the autumn breeze. “No... no, no, no! Victoria! Victoria!” he screamed toward the sprawling stone chateau visible through the iron bars.
From behind the manicured hedge of the circular driveway, the library French doors opened onto the terrace.
I stepped out.
I held a warm cup of Earl Grey tea in my right hand. The wind caught the hem of my cashmere sweater. I didn't yell. I didn't run down the path. I stood on my terrace, forty yards away, looking down at them as if they were a colony of ants that had invaded my garden.
“Victoria!” Sebastian yelled, rushing to the iron bars and wrapping his hands around them. “Victoria, please! Let me explain! It isn't what you think! Gloria pushed me! Alyssa manipulated me! I love you, Victoria! You're my wife!”
Beside him, Alyssa’s head snapped toward him, her face twisting in utter disbelief. “What?! Sebastian, what did you just say?!”
“Shut up, Alyssa!” Sebastian snapped without looking at her, his eyes locked desperately on me. “Victoria, let me in! We can talk through this! We can fix this! You can’t leave me on the street with nothing!”
I took a slow sip of my tea.
I didn't utter a single syllable. I simply looked at him—cool, distant, and untouchable.
Then, I turned my back on them, walked back through the French doors, and closed them with a soft, final click.
At that exact moment, the screech of sirens echoed down Sheridan Road. Two Highland Park Police Department cruisers rounded the bend, their red and blue lights flashing against the fallen autumn leaves.
May you like
Gloria began to wail. Alyssa sank to her knees onto the cold pavement, clutching her stomach. And Sebastian stood clutching the iron bars of the gate he would never enter again, realizing that the gates of his paradise had slammed shut forever.
---
