Chapter 6
The evening chime of the doorbell cut sharply through the quiet of the house, startling the stillness that had settled over the evening. Ryan, who had been sitting rigidly in the living room while his mother watched television at a low volume, stood up quickly. He cast a wary glance down the hallway toward the home office where Clara remained locked away. He straightened his navy shirt and walked briskly to the entryway, pulling the heavy oak door open with an expectant scowl.
Standing on the porch was not a delivery driver or a neighbor, but a middle-aged man in a dark charcoal suit carrying a leather briefcase. The stranger’s expression was neutral, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth. He held a manila folder in one hand, pressing it slightly forward as soon as the door cleared the frame.
“Ryan Vance?” the process server asked, his voice steady and practiced.
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He took a half-step back, his hand gripping the edge of the door frame. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“Property trust registration, civil docket number four-eighty-two,” the server continued smoothly, reading directly from the documents without waiting for an invitation. “You are hereby served with a temporary restraining order regarding the disposition of assets at this residence, pending a preliminary injunction hearing scheduled for Tuesday morning.”
Before Ryan could intercept the paperwork, the door to the home office clicked open. Clara stepped into the hallway, her expression serene and collected as she walked toward the foyer. She wore her grey trousers and the white blouse, looking as though she were heading to a boardroom presentation rather than receiving legal papers in her own hallway. She stopped two paces behind Ryan, her presence commanding the space effortlessly.
Margaret appeared from the living room, her blonde hair slightly disheveled, her eyes wide with alarm as she took in the scene at the front door. “What is the meaning of this? Who is at the door?” she demanded, her voice carrying a sharp, aristocratic edge.
“Just official business, Margaret,” Clara said evenly, stepping forward to accept the manila folder directly from the process server’s hand. She signed the electronic pad the man held out, thanked him politely, and closed the front door with a soft, decisive click.
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Ryan turned to face her, his face flushed with sudden anger, the restrained veneer he had maintained all day finally cracking under the pressure. “Are you out of your mind? You served me at my own home? In front of my mother?”
“You served me an eviction notice over breakfast, Ryan,” Clara replied, her voice dropping into a register of chilling calm. She opened the folder, scanning the top page before looking him directly in the eye. “I simply returned the correspondence through the proper channels. Welcome to the litigation phase.”
