Iris slid over another document—our emergency motion.
Damon’s voice turned to pleading. “Please tell them to leave.”
“Pack a bag,” I told him steadily. “You’re the one leaving.”
Damon gasped. “You can’t kick me out!”
“I’m not. A judge is. Attempted unlawful eviction plus verbal abuse—you kindly put the evidence in writing.”
“What writing?!”
“The texts where you told me to ‘crawl out’ and ‘take my sick body somewhere else.’”
In the background, I heard male voices. Then: “Sir, step back. This is a service of notice.”
“They’re taking my laptop!” Damon cried. “They said it might be tied to the mortgage.”
“Did you put the house under your company?” I asked.
He stammered. “My accountant—suggested—”
There it was.
Iris took the phone. “Mr. Holt, you are legally required to comply. Any interference will escalate this.”
Damon begged, “Please—tell her—I’ll apologize—therapy—whatever she wants—”
I took the phone back.
“You don’t get to call me a mutt and then panic when you realize I’m the one with the leash.”
His voice broke. “Is there any chance you’ll stop this?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll be fair. You’ll get exactly what the law says. Nothing more.”
I hung up.
A moment later, I got a text from an unknown number:
“He’s not telling you everything. Check the safe.”
