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 Ritz Carlton Rejection
The next phase of my plan relied on the fact that Greg and Barbara were creatures of habit and entitlement. I knew exactly where they would go. There was only one luxury hotel in town they considered worthy of them: the Ritz Carlton.
I drove there, keeping a safe distance. Sure enough, my father’s car was parked out front. Greg storming into the lobby, Barbara trailing behind, her white dress now muddy from her driveway tantrum. I parked and slipped into the lobby, positioning myself behind a large potted palm where I could see the front desk.
Greg slammed his hand on the marble counter.
“I need a suite. The Presidential, if you have it. My house… we have a plumbing emergency.”
Lying to the end.
The concierge typed something.
“Certainly, sir. We do have the suite available. It’s $1,500 a night plus tax. May I have a credit card for incidentals?”
Greg pulled out his black card, the one that used to be tied to my corporate bonuses, the one I had canceled at 9:01 a.m. that very morning. He swiped it. The concierge frowned.
“I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.”
“Run it again,”
Greg snapped.
“It’s a premium card. There’s no limit.”
“The system says the card has been reported lost or stolen,”
she said, her voice a decibel quieter.
“Stolen?”
Greg’s face flushed.
“Here, try this one.”
He handed over the joint card.
“Declined.”
Greg started to sweat. He patted his pockets. He pulled out a debit card, his personal one, the one tied to the account where he kept his consulting money.
“This one works,”
he said confidently.
The concierge ran the card. She waited. She looked up, a hint of pity in her eyes.
“Sir, there are insufficient funds in the account.”
“What?”
Greg yelled.
“There was $5,000 in there yesterday!”
There was. But remember the gambling debt? The one I’d stopped paying? The casino had a lien. The moment the joint protections were stripped by the divorce decree, the creditors had pounced and seized his personal account. Diana had tipped them off.
Barbara walked up, wiping smeared mascara from her face.
“Just use my card, Greg. God.”
She rummaged in her purse and produced a card. It was the supplementary card from my account.
“Ma’am, that card is also invalid,”
the concierge said.
The silence in the lobby was deafening. People were staring. A bride in a dirty dress and a groom with no money.
“We… We have cash,”
Greg stammered. He opened his wallet. He had maybe $300. Not enough for a motel on the edge of town, let alone the Ritz Carlton.
“I have to make a call,”
Greg said, his voice trembling. He pulled out his phone. He dialed my number. I watched my phone light up in my purse. I let it ring. He dialed my parents.
“Dad,”
I heard his voice crack.
“She kicked us out. She canceled the cards. We’re at the Ritz. We can’t pay. We have nowhere to go.”
I couldn’t hear my father’s reply, but I saw Greg’s face fall.
“What do you mean you can’t come? Yes, I know it’s late, but Barb is pregnant! Fine. Fine. We’ll come to you.”
He hung up and looked at Barbara.
“Your dad said we can sleep on the pullout sofa in his den.”
“The sofa?”
Barbara shrieked.
“I’m a bride! I’m pregnant! I can’t sleep on a sofa!”
“Well, we can’t sleep here!”
Greg yelled back, losing control.
“We have no money, Barb! She took it all! She took every last damn cent!”
“You told me you had your own money!”
Barbara accused, shoving him.
“You said you were a tycoon!”
“I was spending her money!”
Greg confessed, his voice echoing under the high ceilings.
“It was all her money! Are you happy now?”
The concierge cleared her throat.
“Sir, ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re disturbing the other guests.”
They walked out of the hotel. The walk of shame to end all walks of shame. No luxury suite. No champagne. Just a cold drive back to my parents’ house to sleep on a lumpy couch in a room that smelled of old newspapers.
I walked up to the lobby bar.
“Champagne,”
I told the bartender.
“The most expensive glass you have.”
“Celebrating something?”
he asked.
“Freedom,”
I said.
“And justice.”
