Chapter 7 - THE EVICTION NOTICE: WHEN HOTEL SECURITY MEANS BUSINESS IN THE SUNSHINE STATE
Back at the oceanfront resort in Miami, the clock on the wall of Suite 1201 clicked relentlessly toward 12:00 PM.
The penthouse living room looked like a war zone.
The half-eaten breakfast plates from room service sat congealing on the dining table, surrounded by crumpled napkins and empty coffee cups.
Eleanor was pacing back and forth across the white marble floor, her silk bathrobe swishing angrily, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.
“This is completely illegal!” Eleanor shrieked for the fifth time that hour, waving her hands in the air. “They cannot throw us out! We are guests of the resort! My son is a prominent businessman!”
Harrison sat on the sofa, his head buried in his hands, looking twenty years older than he had twenty-four hours ago. “Eleanor, shut up. Pacing isn't going to make twelve thousand dollars magically appear in our bank accounts. My business credit cards are frozen, your cards are frozen, Victoria’s cards are frozen, and Julian’s accounts are locked tighter than a federal vault.”
Victoria was huddled in the corner of the sofa, sniffling into a damp tissue, her mascara running down her cheeks. “What are we going to do? The front desk called three minutes ago. They said if we don't clear the balance or provide a valid payment method by noon, security is coming up to deactivate our keycards.”
All eyes turned slowly toward Julian.
Julian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the crowded beach below, his shirt wrinkled, his hair uncombed, and a hollow, terrified look carved deep into his features.
He was the golden boy. The provider. The man who was supposed to handle everything.
And in less than twenty-four hours, his entire house of cards had collapsed into dust.
“Julian,” Eleanor hissed, marching over to him and grabbing his arm, digging her fingernails into his skin. “Fix this. Call your friends. Call your business associates. Borrow the money!”
“From who, Mom?!” Julian snapped, finally turning around, his voice cracking with sheer hysteria as he jerked his arm away from her grip. “Who do you think is going to lend us twelve thousand dollars on a Sunday afternoon with zero collateral?! All my so-called friends in high society only talk to me because I’m married to Genevieve! Without her money, I’m nobody!”
Before Eleanor could deliver a stinging retort, a sharp, heavy knock echoed against the double doors of the penthouse.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence descended instantly over the suite.
Harrison swallowed hard, looking toward the entryway.
Julian slowly walked over to the door and turned the brass handle, pulling it open.
Standing in the hallway wasn't Marcus from the front desk.
It was the head of resort security—a massive, broad-shouldered man named Vance (no relation to our family’s bleeding bank accounts) flanked by four uniformed officers from the Miami-Dade Police Department.
“Mr. Vance,” the security chief said, his voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of mercy. “It is twelve o'clock noon. Your provisional billing window has expired.”
“Wait—just give us another hour!” Julian pleaded, holding his hands up defensively. “My legal team is wiring funds from an international account—!”
“Sir, your keycards have been deactivated, and the suites have been officially checked out by the primary reservation holder,” the security chief interrupted, stepping across the threshold. “You and your family have ten minutes to collect your personal belongings and vacate the premises. If you are not out by 12:10 PM, local law enforcement will assist us in removing you for trespassing.”
Victoria let out a loud, pathetic wail, throwing herself back onto the sofa.
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Eleanor’s face turned a dangerous shade of mottled purple, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as she realized the unthinkable reality:
The Vances were being thrown out of a luxury Miami resort like common vagrants.
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