Chapter 5 - The Locked Gates
By twelve-fifteen that afternoon, a cold rain had begun to sweep across Lake Forest, stripping the last golden leaves from the oak trees lining Sheridan Road.
I sat in the passenger seat of Margaret’s black Mercedes, parked fifty yards past the wrought-iron gates of my estate. A marked Cook County Sheriff’s cruiser was parked directly in the driveway, its roof lights flashing silently through the drizzle. Behind it sat a commercial locksmith’s van.
Deputy Miller, a tall, no-nonsense officer with broad shoulders and a waterproof jacket, walked up to Margaret’s window. Margaret rolled it down an inch.
“They’re inside packing now, Counselor,” Deputy Miller said. “He threw a fit when we told him the art and wine cellar stayed locked, but he got the message. They have fifty minutes left.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” Margaret replied. “Let them finish.”
Through the wrought-iron bars, I watched the heavy front doors open.
Preston emerged carrying two large leather suitcases, his custom suit drenched in the rain. Behind him, Kelsey was dragging three oversized rolling bags, struggling in four-inch designer heels across the wet gravel.
She wasn't smiling for a camera now. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her cheeks, and she was yelling at Preston, gesturing wildly back toward the estate. Preston didn't look at her; he shoved his luggage into the trunk of his leased sedan with reckless fury.
They loaded their bags under the watchful eye of two armed deputies. When Preston slammed the trunk shut, he turned and looked directly toward our car.
He recognized my silhouette through the windshield.
For ten straight seconds, he stood in the freezing downpour, his jaw clenched, pure malice radiating from his eyes. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, revved the engine, and tore out of the gates, spraying wet gravel against the stone pillars.
As soon as the tail lights vanished down the tree-lined avenue, the locksmith got to work.
Ten minutes later, the digital keypad on the front gates was rewired, and every lock on the front, rear, and side entrances of the main house had been swapped for commercial-grade deadbolts.
I stepped through the front door of my home for the first time in six months.
The foyer smelled of expensive citrus perfume and cold rain. Moving into the master suite, the remnants of their hasty departure were everywhere: open vanity drawers, discarded plastic hangers, and an empty bottle of champagne left resting on the bedside table.
I walked straight into the master bathroom.
The room was silent. The marble tub was dry.
Neatly draped over the edge of the freestanding tub lay the emerald silk robe Kelsey had worn in her photograph.
I walked over, picked it up with two fingers, and dropped it straight into the wastebasket beside the vanity without a second thought.
Then my phone vibrated in my palm.
It was an alert from my private forensic accountant, Marcus Vance.
Claire, check your secure email immediately. While running the court-ordered audit on Preston’s advisory accounts this morning, we found offshore routing numbers connected to your original startup intellectual property.
My pulse surged.
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Preston hadn't just tried to steal my house and my reputation. He had been quietly skimming from the proprietary tech patents I sold years ago—and the trail led right to an account opened under Kelsey Monroe’s name.
The war was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.
