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

Preston looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot. "You don't belong here," he spat, though the venom lacked its usual potency. "You're a waitress. You can't even afford the electric bill for this room."

I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I just pulled out my phone and hit the speed dial for the private security services Vance had put on retainer.

"He's in the guest house," I said calmly, never breaking eye contact with the man who ruined me.

Two minutes later, heavy boots thundered across the patio. Preston scrambled back against the wall, but dignity had deserted him days ago.

"I have rights!" he shrieked as two uniformed guards hoisted him up by his armpits. "This is my property!"

"Not anymore," the lead guard said, handing him a eviction notice service receipt. "You're trespassing on private property."

They dragged him out. He didn't have luggage—just a gym duffel bag he must have stashed before the seizure.

I climbed the stairs to the main balcony. The view of the city was breathtaking. Down below, outside the tall iron gates, I saw a small figure being deposited onto the sidewalk.

Preston stood up, dusted off his ruined suit, and looked back at the house. I stepped to the railing, looking down at him from the heights he used to command. He saw me. He flipped me off, but his hand was shaking.