“Send me that screenshot,” David said, his voice flat and cold. “Martinez is supposed to be here at 8 a.m..”
The next morning, a locksmith’s drill shut down my old life. At 9:30, the movers arrived, packing eight years of Tyler’s belongings with clinical efficiency.
Mrs. Chin, my elderly neighbor, appeared with soup. She looked at the movers, then at me. “That woman in the white BMW has been coming here for months. While you’re at work.”
Charlotte drove a white BMW. It wasn’t just about dinner. He also desecrated our home.
By noon, sixty-three boxes were at the door. David handed me the paperwork. The locks were changed. The property was packed. Pickup in forty-eight hours. No direct contact.
I signed without hesitation.
The next day, the doorbell camera showed Tyler with his mother, Eleanor. Her voice was sharp: “Straighten up. You look pathetic.”
David answered the intercom. “Mrs. Wilson, the boxes are in the hallway. The door will be opened remotely.”
I watched on my phone as Tyler froze before the stacks of boxes—monuments to his betrayal. Road after road, he carried his life. At the box marked “Wedding Photos,” he hesitated.
“Tyler, hurry up,” Eleanor snapped. “Charlotte called.”
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