Chapter 8 - The Desperate Groom
Greg didn't even notice the look on Deputy Miller’s face. He was too consumed by his own frantic rage, his eyes darting wildly between the closed security gates and the moving truck idling on the asphalt.
“Mr. Sterling,” Deputy Miller said, his voice dropping into that slow, measured official register that always meant trouble. “You might want to take a very close look at the paperwork your firm filed with Judge Harrison’s office this afternoon.”
Greg blinked, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “What are you talking about? It’s an emergency writ of execution! It grants us immediate control of the estate!”
“It grants control of parcel 884-B,” the bailiff chimed in, stepping forward with a cold, professional glare. “Which happens to be the primary commercial vineyard and main farmhouse—none of which were included in the deed transfer executed last Tuesday. You filed an injunction against property your fiancée doesn't even own.”
Color drained completely from Greg’s face. The arrogant, untouchable corporate titan melted away in an instant, leaving behind a terrified young man realizing he had just committed a very public, very serious legal blunder.
“No... no, that’s a mistake,” Greg stammered, pulling a crumpled stack of papers from his pants pocket and thumbing through them frantically. “The lawyers said—they pulled the master plat—they said the entire estate was bundled under a single corporate umbrella—”
“Your lawyers made a clerical error because they didn't bother to verify the separate agricultural subdivisions,” I interrupted, stepping right up to the metal gate bars. “Or perhaps, Greg, you were just in too much of a hurry to steal my life’s work to read the fine print.”
Greg whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto mine with pure, unadulterated venom. All pretense of politeness was gone.
“This is your fault!” Greg screamed, lunging toward the gate before Deputy Miller quickly stepped between us, resting a hand reassuringly on his service weapon. “You tricked us! You gave us that worthless stone shack by the creek and pretended it was the main estate! You set us up!”
“I gave your fiancée an eight-million-dollar home free and clear,” I corrected, my voice cold as ice. “And you immediately tried to evict me from my own land so your wealthy mother wouldn't have to look at my work boots. You brought this entirely on yourself, Greg.”
“Mr. Sterling,” the bailiff said sharply, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “Filing a fraudulent property claim on a sworn legal affidavit to execute a forced lockout is a Class 5 felony in the Commonwealth of Virginia. I am officially revoking this writ, and I will be submitting a full report to Judge Harrison’s chambers first thing Monday morning recommending a criminal investigation for attempted fraud.”
“Fraud?!” Greg’s voice cracked into a desperate, high-pitched shriek. He turned pleadingly toward Deputy Miller. “Tom—you know me! My family has contracts with half the county! You can’t let them do this! Our wedding is supposed to be in Richmond this weekend! Everything is falling apart!”
“Well, son, looks like you’ve got bigger problems than wedding caterers right now,” Deputy Miller said grimly, shaking his head. “I suggest you get back in your car and call your lawyers. Because if you don't clear this vehicle off the county road in the next two minutes, I’m towing it.”
Greg stood frozen on the asphalt, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as reality finally crashed down around him. His multi-million-dollar corporate career, his high-society wedding, and his bulletproof ego were disintegrating into dust right before his eyes.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, slammed his fist against the roof of his sports car, and climbed back inside, tires squealing as he threw the car into reverse and tore back down the country road in a cloud of dust.
I watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of pity and absolute cold resolve.
And then my phone buzzed in my cardigan pocket.
I pulled it out and looked at the screen. It wasn't Greg. It wasn't Eleanor.
It was an unknown number with a local Charlottesville area code.
I swiped and pressed it to my ear.
“Hello?”
May you like
“Andrea?” a soft, tearful voice whispered from the other end of the line. “Mom... please. Please pick up. I’m sitting in the car with Greg, and everything is completely ruined. I don't know what to do.”
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