Chapter 4 - The Eight O'Clock KnockFriday morning broke with a heavy, humid mist rolling off the Miami River, shrouding the sleek glass towers of Edgewater in a blanket of grey fog.
Inside apartment 14B, the atmosphere was a disaster zone of panic and recrimination.
Derek had spent the entire night pacing the bare living room floor, his phone glued to his ear as he called every mutual friend, insurance colleague, and distant relative he could think of, trying to spin a frantic narrative where Skylar had suddenly gone "deranged" and abandoned him without cause.
Suzanne had slept—or rather, fitfully dozed—on the bare cushions of the living room sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket, her face dark with resentment.
“Did she answer? Did anyone hear from her?” Suzanne snapped, sitting up abruptly as Derek paced past her for the hundredth time.
“No one,” Derek snarled, his eyes bloodshot, his tailored shirt wrinkled from wearing it for twenty-four hours straight. “Her office HR department told me she took an indefinite personal leave starting today. Her personal phone is still sending me straight to voicemail. She’s ghosted me, Suzanne! Completely ghosted me!”
“Well, go down to her office! Or go to her bank!” Suzanne demanded, swinging her legs off the sofa. “You can’t just let her take everything! What about my wholesale order deposit?! You promised me she’d cover it by this morning!”
Before Derek could snap back a furious reply, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed loudly against the front apartment door.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Derek froze. His heart gave a violent lurch against his ribs. He exchanged a panicked glance with his sister.
“Is that... is that her?” Suzanne whispered, her eyes widening with sudden hope. “Did she come back?”
Derek crept cautiously toward the entryway, gripping the brass doorknob. He pulled the door open, expecting to see Skylar standing in the hallway with her suitcases, ready to apologize.
Instead, standing in the doorway were two towering men in sharp charcoal suits. One of them held a heavy leather clipboard; the other wore a gold civil process server badge clipped securely to his belt. Behind them stood two uniform Miami police officers with their hands resting calmly on their utility belts.
“Derek Miller?” the lead process server asked, his voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth.
Derek swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. “Y-yes? I’m Derek Miller. Who are you?”
Without a single word of introduction, the server stepped forward, thrusting a thick stack of legal documents directly into Derek’s chest, forcing him to catch them with both hands to avoid dropping them on the floor.
“You have been served,” the server announced clearly, pulling out a digital tablet for electronic signature capture. “These documents include an emergency domestic violence restraining order issued by the Eleventh Judicial Circuit of Florida, mandating your immediate and permanent vacation of this premises within two hours under penalty of felony arrest. Furthermore, you are served with a formal petition for dissolution of marriage, an emergency eviction notice, and notice of impending civil asset forfeiture for fraudulent commingling.”
Derek stared at the papers in his hands as if they were written in ancient hieroglyphics.
“What... what is this?” Derek stammered, his knees trembling beneath him. “There must be some mistake! This is my home! My wife and I live here!”
“Your wife is the sole legal owner of this property, Mr. Miller,” the lead police officer stepped forward, his tone icy and authoritative. “And per the judge’s emergency order, you have exactly one hundred and twenty minutes to pack your belongings, hand over your keys to the property manager, and vacate the premises. If you are found within five hundred feet of this building after 10:00 AM, we will return with handcuffs.”
Suzanne shoved her way past Derek into the hallway, her face twisted into an expression of incandescent rage. “You can’t do this! We have rights! My brother lives here! Who authorized this garbage?!”
The process server didn't even blink. He looked down at Suzanne, tapped his tablet screen, and reached into his briefcase once more.
“And you, Ms. Suzanne Miller,” the server said smoothly, pulling out a second, smaller envelope, “are formally served with a civil subpoena to appear before the Miami-Dade district court regarding your involvement in illicit financial coercion, unauthorized credit utilization, and conspiracy to commit asset misappropriation.”
Suzanne’s face drained of all color, the aggressive screech dying instantly in her throat.
May you like
The two police officers stepped across the threshold, anchoring themselves firmly in the foyer like granite statues.
“Two hours, Mr. Miller,” the officer said, tapping his watch. “Start packing.”
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