My Mother Demanded I Divorce My Husband And Give Him Our House Because He Got My Sister Pregnant. Little Do They Know, I’m A Cfo And Have Already Secured The Assets. How Do I Tell Them They’re Now Trespassing On My Property?

The Wedding Night Eviction

On day 29, the judge signed the decree. I was officially divorced. I was officially single. And legally, Greg was officially a squatter.

Diana called me.

“It’s signed. The eviction notice is prepared. The locksmith is on standby. The movers are booked to put your furniture in storage.”

“Wait,”

I said.

“Don’t send the movers yet. Let them have the wedding first.”

“You want them to have their reception in your house?”

Diana asked, bewildered.

“No,”

I said.

“Their reception is at a banquet hall because they’re cheap. But they’ll be coming back to the house for their wedding night. That’s when we strike.”

“That’s cold, Veronica.”

“They stole my husband and tried to steal my future,”

I said.

“Cold is the only temperature I have left.”

I hung up. I looked at the calendar. Saturday. The wedding was on Saturday. I was sending a gift. It wasn’t a toaster. It was a process server.

I obviously did not attend the wedding, but in the age of social media, you don’t need to be present to witness a train wreck; you just need a burner account. Greg and Barbara’s wedding was a testament to their delusions.

My cousin Mike, who was secretly on my side but feared my mother’s wrath, was giving me a real-time report via text.

Barb is in white. Very white. And a tiara. Looks like a melted cake topper. Greg is drunk, telling everyone how his investments are expanding. Your mom is crying during the toast about how true love always finds a way. I think I’m going to be sick.

I sat in my apartment scrolling through the photos. There they were, my ex-husband and my sister, cutting a cake that I knew my father had paid for. They looked triumphant. They looked like they had gotten away with murder.

Barbara’s caption under her post: Finally Mrs. Miller. So happy to start our lives in our forever home. #Soulmate #Happy #SorryNotSorry.

That #SorryNotSorry hashtag was the final straw. She wasn’t just happy; she was gloating. She wanted me to see it. She wanted me to know she had won.

I looked at the clock. It was 9:00 p.m. The reception was winding down. Soon they would be heading back to Maple Street.

I made a call to the private security firm Diana had hired.

“Initiate Phase 2,”

I said.

“Understood, Miss Miller. We are in position.”

The locksmith was done. The notices were posted. I felt a surge of adrenaline so strong it made my hands shake. This was it. While they were slow dancing, a team was changing every lock on my house. While they were tossing the bouquet, a process server was taping a bright orange eviction notice to the front door, the back door, and the garage.

And while they were getting into their “Just Married” car—my father’s sedan, since I’d repossessed the company car—my security team was parking across the street, ready to enforce the law.

I imagined their drive. They were probably laughing. Greg was probably loosening his tie, thinking about carrying his pregnant bride over the threshold of the house he’d pushed me out of. He was probably thinking about how clever he was, how he’d beaten the system. He didn’t know the system had been rigged against him from the start.

I poured myself a glass of sparkling water. I didn’t need alcohol to numb this. I wanted to feel every second of it.

“Happy wedding day, Barb,”

I toasted the empty room.

“Welcome to reality.”

My phone buzzed. It was Mike again. They just left. Headed your way. Good luck, Veronica. Give them hell.

I grabbed my coat. I wasn’t going to stay in the apartment. I needed to see this. I drove to my old neighborhood and parked three houses down, hidden in the shadow of a large oak tree. I watched the street. It was quiet. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and black.

The house, my house, was dark. I had remotely cut the power via the smart home app 5 minutes ago.

Headlights swept down the street. The car pulled into the driveway. It was them. The show was about to begin.

The scene unfolded with cinematic precision. Greg’s car door opened and he stumbled out, still in his tuxedo, looking a little unsteady on his feet. He walked around to open the door for Barbara. She emerged, her white dress dragging on the wet pavement, clutching her stomach theatrically. They walked up the path to the front porch.

I rolled down my window an inch, just enough to hear.

“Why are the lights off?”

Barbara whined, her voice shrill in the night air.

“I told you to leave the porch light on.”

“I did,”

Greg mumbled.

“Bulb must have burned out. Relax baby, we’re home.”

He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. The keys I had given him. The old keys. He slid the key into the lock. He turned. Nothing. He jiggled it. Pulled it out. Wiped it on his pants and tried again. He put his shoulder to the door. It didn’t budge.

“What is wrong with you?”

Barbara snapped.

“Open the door. I have to pee.”

“It’s stuck,”

Greg grunted.

“Must be the humidity.”

He tried again, turning harder.

“Damn it!”

Greg yelled, kicking the door.

That’s when the motion sensor floodlights I’d remotely activated suddenly blazed to life, bathing them in blinding white light. And that’s when they saw it: the bright orange piece of paper taped directly at eye level. An eviction notice and a no trespassing warning.

Greg ripped it from the door, squinting to read it.

“What is this?”

Barbara asked, peering over his shoulder.

“It… It says we’re trespassing,”

Greg stammered.

“Miller Holdings LLC… Veronica!”

He roared my name.

“Veronica!”

He turned, scanning the darkness, spoiling for a fight.

“I know it’s you! This is my house! You can’t kick me out!”

He picked up a decorative rock from the garden and started toward the living room window.

“Don’t do it, Greg,”

I whispered to myself.

Before he could throw it, the unmarked sedan across the street lit up with flashing red and blue lights. Two private security officers in uniform, but with arresting authority, stepped out of the car.

“Drop the rock, sir,”

one of them commanded, his hand on his sidearm. Greg froze.

“Officers! Thank God. My ex-wife… she’s locked us out. This is my house. I have my pregnant wife here. You have to let us in.”

The officer walked up the path, calm and imposing.

“Sir, step away from the door. Can I see your identification?”

Greg fumbled for his wallet.

“I live here. 42 Maple Street. Check your records.”

The officer looked at the ID, then at a tablet he was holding.

“I have a deed here listing the owner as Miller Holdings LLC. And I have a signed court order from yesterday stating that a Mr. Gregory Miller agreed to vacate the premises immediately upon divorce.”

“That was a formality!”

Greg yelled, spittle flying.

“We had a verbal agreement! She gave it to me!”

“A verbal agreement does not override a court order, sir,”

the officer said.

“And since you are no longer a resident and you just attempted to break a window, you are currently trespassing. You need to leave.”

“Leave?”

Barbara shrieked.

“Leave to where? We live here! All our stuff is inside! My baby’s crib is in there!”

“Your personal property has been packed and moved to a storage unit,”

the officer read from his tablet.

“Here is the address and the key to the unit.”

He held out a small brass key to Greg.

“You packed my things?”

Barbara looked horrified.

“You touched my underwear? This is illegal! I’m calling my dad!”

“You can call whomever you like,”

the officer said.

“But you cannot stay here. If you are not in your car and leaving within the next 3 minutes, I will arrest you for trespassing and attempted vandalism.”

Greg looked at the house. He looked at the orange sticker. He looked at the useless key in his hand. Reality was finally cutting through the alcohol and the arrogance. He owned nothing. He was a guest who had overstayed his welcome.

“Veronica!”

he screamed into the night again, staring right at the oak tree where I was hiding, though he couldn’t see me.

“You… You planned this! You let us plan a wedding knowing you were going to do this?”

I smiled.

“Yes. Yes I did.”

“Sir, final warning,”

the officer said, stepping closer.

“In the car. Now.”

Barbara started sobbing. It was a loud, ugly wail.

“My wedding night! You ruined my wedding night!”

Greg shoved her toward the car.

“Shut up, Barb. Just get in the car.”

“Don’t push me!”

she screamed back.

“This is your fault! You said you had it handled! You said she was a pushover! She tricked me!”

They screamed at each other as they scrambled back into my father’s sedan. Greg slammed the door, backed out of the driveway, and sped off, tires squealing on the wet asphalt. The officers watched them go, then turned off their lights and returned to their post.

Silence fell over Maple Street. I leaned back in my seat, my heart hammering but my soul was singing. They were homeless on their wedding night. But I wasn’t done yet. The house was just the shelter; now I had to take away the food.