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

The heavy courthouse doors had closed behind me, but the silence inside Preston’s mansion was even heavier. It wasn't my home yet; it was a mausoleum of ego. The marble floors were too cold, the art too abstract, the air scrubbed of any scent of life. I stood in the foyer, holding a paint scraper like a weapon. The legal battle was won, but exorcising his ghost from these walls required a different kind of labor.

"It needs... warmth," I muttered, peeling back a strip of pretentious silver wallpaper to reveal the drywal underneath. It felt good to destroy the pristine surface he loved so much. I had hired a home renovation contractor, but for this, I needed to get my hands dirty.

I invited the girls from the diner. When they walked in, holding six-packs of cheap beer that looked hilarious against the Italian granite countertops, the house finally breathed. We blasted classic rock, covering the sterile interior design luxury with drop cloths and laughter. For the first time, the echo in the hallway didn't sound lonely; it sounded like a party.

"Sarah!" Betty yelled from the master study, her voice echoing. "Come look at this weird panel."

I wiped plaster dust from my forehead and walked in. Betty was pointing at a section of the mahogany bookshelf that sat slightly askew. I tugged it. It swung open on hidden hinges, revealing a heavy steel door set into the wall. Preston had been processed for prison so quickly he must have forgotten to clear everything out. My heart hammered against my ribs—a sudden spike of safe cracking adrenaline. What was he still hiding?