The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

Vance wasn’t joking about the timeline. Less than twelve hours after the verdict, I stood on the manicured lawn of the Sterling estate, the morning sun doing nothing to warm the chill of the asset seizure law in action.

A team of deputies moved like ants across the porch, carrying out paintings, statues, and electronics. The silence of the exclusive neighborhood was shattered by the beep of heavy machinery.

"You can't do this!" Preston screamed from the driveway. He was still in his bespoke suit, but his tie was undone, his hair wild. "my lawyers will bury you!"

Vance stood beside me, checking his watch. "Your lawyers are currently suing you for unpaid legal fees, Preston. The sheriff eviction protocol is strict. Anything of value goes to satisfy the judgment."

Preston lunged toward a deputy holding a box of vintage wine, but a burly officer held him back. It was pathetic. The man who had laughed at my crumpled sedan was now watching his empire follow the same trajectory.

Then came the rumble of a flatbed truck. The crowd of neighbors parted.

The winch whirred, hooking onto the bumper of the silver Pagani—the same car that had destroyed my life. As the tires left the pavement for the luxury car auction block, Preston’s knees finally buckled.

"No," he sobbed, the sound raw and ugly. "Not the car. Please, not the car."

I watched the vehicle rise, reflecting the sun, until it was just cargo.