He tried to grab my hand, but my father stepped between us. “Do not touch her.”
My father turned to the guests. “The party is over, please leave, this property now belongs to me.”
Guests rushed out in chaos, eager to distance themselves from the collapse. Vivian stood trembling in the dim light.
“You cannot throw me out of my own home,” she hissed.
“You have ten minutes to collect personal items,” my father replied. “Clothing and toiletries only.”
Tiffany sobbed as guards escorted them outside. I followed onto the terrace and watched as they were left in the mud beyond the broken gate, just as I had been.
William called my name repeatedly, but I felt nothing. I remembered every insult, every time I was forced to eat in the kitchen when important guests visited.
“Do you want to give them anything,” my father asked gently.
“Let them learn humility,” I answered.
The next day my father ordered the mansion demolished, brick by brick. He did not want to sell it, he wanted no trace left of the place where I had been humiliated.
News of the Ashford collapse spread quickly through Los Angeles society. Their debt, the attempted framing, and the foreclosure became public record.