Chapter 6 - The Stripping of the House
What followed over the next four hours was a masterclass in surgical architectural salvage.
Marcus and his team worked with terrifying, mechanical efficiency.
By 10:30 a.m., the kitchen had been stripped to its bare studs.
The Sub-Zero refrigerator, the five-thousand-dollar Wolf gas range, the stainless steel dishwasher, and the wine cooler were all carefully disconnected, wrapped in moving blankets, and wheeled out to the freight trucks on heavy hand dollies.
Next came the light fixtures.
Every custom crystal chandelier, every brass wall sconce, and every hand-blown glass pendant lamp that I had purchased through my trade account was unbolted from the ceilings by an electrician Marcus had brought along.
In their place, small, bare sixty-watt yellow lightbulbs hung from exposed black wires, casting a bleak, sad glow over the emptied rooms.
Margaret sat on the front lawn in her silk bathrobe, weeping hysterically into a towel, while her neighbors watched the entire spectacle from their porch steps across the street.
"You're a monster!" Margaret sobbed, looking up at me as I checked items off my inventory list with a red pen. "You're ruining my life! How am I supposed to cook?! How am I supposed to live in this house?!"
"You have fresh air, Margaret," I replied without looking up from my clipboard. "Maybe it will teach you some humility."
Daniel ran up to me in the foyer, his eyes wild with a mixture of terror and utter humiliation.
The house around him was echoing, hollow, and completely bare. The polished white oak floors were covered in dusty boot prints, the walls bore empty squares where expensive artwork had hung, and the kitchen was nothing more than an empty concrete alcove with exposed plumbing pipes.
"Emily, please!" Daniel begged, sinking onto his knees on the bare floor, grasping at my work boots. "Stop this! We can talk! I'll apologize! My mother will apologize! Just leave the refrigerator and the stove!"
I looked down at him.
Four years of my life—four years of supporting his ambitions, paying for his dinners, managing his mother's endless demands, and believing his promises—lay crushed under my boot.
"Do you remember what you told me yesterday through that gate, Daniel?" I asked softly.
Daniel swallowed hard, his jaw trembling. "Emily... I was stressed..."
"You told me a wife has to learn how to adapt to her husband's family," I said, my voice dropping into an icy whisper. "Well, I am adapting. I am adapting to the fact that you are a spineless coward who let your mother abuse the woman you claimed to love."
May you like
I stepped back, pulling my boot out of his hands.
"And now," I added, "you can adapt to eating takeout off a bare concrete floor."
