Chapter 2 - The Midnight Eviction
Inside the brownstone, the dining room was still buzzing with indignant energy. Mark paced back and forth across the Persian rug, a glass of scotch clutched in his hand.
“I still can’t believe she laid hands on Megan,” Carol muttered, dabbing her daughter’s cheek with a damp cloth while Megan whimpered dramatically on the velvet settee. “The utter ghetto trash behavior. I always said, Mark, you should have married someone from our country club circuit instead of picking up strays from Ohio.”
Mark rubbed his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes. Not out of guilt, but out of sheer annoyance that his peaceful holiday had been disrupted. “Mom, stop. Chloe is already gone. I’ll text her in the morning, tell her she needs to apologize to Megan if she wants to come back to the house.”
Frank Peterson snorted from his armchair, swirling his brandy. “Apologize? If it were up to me, she wouldn’t be allowed back through the front door at all. And you need to put your foot down with your wife, Mark. A man who can’t control his household isn’t fit for partnership at the firm.”
That hit Mark right where it hurt. His status at Peterson & Associates—his father-in-law/father’s firm—was his entire identity.
Before Mark could reply, a loud, heavy BANG echoed through the front hallway.
It wasn't a knock. It was the sound of a fist hitting the heavy oak door with authoritative force.
“Who on earth is that?” Carol snapped, peering into the foyer. “If it’s a delivery, tell them to go around.”
Mark walked out to the foyer, pulling the door open with a scowl, ready to dismiss whoever was foolish enough to disturb them.
Instead of a delivery driver, he found two uniformed Chicago police officers standing under the porch light, flanked by a tall, imposing man in a sharp charcoal suit holding a thick manila folder.
Mark’s scowl vanished, replaced by sudden confusion. “Officers? Can I help you? There’s been some mistake—”
“Are you Mark Peterson?” the lead officer asked, his voice flat and professional.
“Yes, I am. Look, if this is about a noise complaint—”
“Mr. Peterson, we are here to execute a temporary emergency protective order and accompany a designated representative to retrieve personal property and minor child belongings from this residence,” the officer stated, stepping past a stunned Mark into the grand foyer.
The rest of the family poured out of the dining room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Frank bellowed, marching up to the officer. “Do you know who I am? Frank Peterson! I own half the commercial real estate in this zip code!”
“And I am Officer Vance,” the cop replied without blinking. “Sir, step back. We have a formal complaint filed thirty minutes ago regarding the physical assault of a minor child inside this residence.”
Megan went completely pale, dropping her damp cloth. “Assault? She slapped me!”
“That,” Marcus said, stepping smoothly into the foyer from behind the officers, looking like an executioner in a bespoke suit, “is a matter for a judge, Megan. But right now, we’re here for Chloe’s clothes, her legal documents, and Lily’s things.”
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Mark stared at Marcus, his jaw slack. “Marcus? What the hell are you doing here? You’re my friend!”
“I was your friend, Mark,” Marcus said coldly, dropping the manila folder onto the mahogany entry table. “Now, I’m Chloe’s attorney. And trust me when I say this: you have no idea how badly you just fucked up.”