dangerously close to the rim of his glass. “You broke into my house. Officer, arrest this woman. She’s trespassing.”
The police officer stepped forward, calm and entirely unmoved by Julian’s outrage, pulling out an official property registry document provided by my attorney.
“Sir, this property is owned one hundred percent by Ms. Natalie Meyer,” the officer stated firmly, his voice carrying easily across the sudden silence of the room. “There are no recorded leases, no rent receipts, and no legal tenancy agreements on file for you or your wife. You are currently unauthorized occupants on private property.”
Kloe stepped forward, her voice rising in hysterics, her earlier confidence cracking visibly. “We live here. Our clothes are in the master bedroom. You can’t just throw us out at night.”
“Actually, I can,” I said, stepping forward and handing them two legal documents prepared by Harrison Vance, the paper crisp and official
