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

The silence after the tow trucks left was heavy. The transfer didn't happen overnight, but the legal machinery Vance oiled was terrifyingly efficient. A week later, he handed me a heavy brass key.

"The real estate title transfer is complete," Vance said. "The house is yours. The bank wants to liquidate, but you have the right to inspect strictly for assessment."

I stepped into the foyer. It smelled of lemon polish and cold air. My boots—cheap, rubber-soled—squeaked on the marble floors. It was too big. Too hollow.

I walked through the empty rooms, the walls marked by lighter squares where art used to hang. It didn't feel like a victory yet; it felt like walking through a graveyard of someone's ego. I needed to understand the property law regarding selling this place immediately.

I wandered out the back French doors toward the guest house. It was supposed to be empty. But as I approached the pool house, I saw a flicker of movement behind the blinds.

My stomach tightened. I pushed the door open. The air inside was stale, smelling of sweat and expensive scotch.

"Get out," a voice slurred from the shadows.

Preston was sitting on a bare mattress in the corner, clutching a bottle. He hadn't left. He was testing the limits of squatters rights eviction, clinging to the last scrap of his kingdom like a barnacle.