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The voice on the phone only made me more furious.
My own house had been turned into a columbarium, and Jerry had the nerve to book me a seven–bucks motel, and even told me to check out first thing in the morning.
“Tell Jerry he needs to get back here immediately,” I said coldly. “And let him know I’m calling the police. Someone turned my property into a storage room for ashes, and I want
answers.”
“Also,” I added, “I’ll be contacting the property management. I want everything in this place thrown out!”
I had barely finished speaking when that same woman snapped back through the phone.
“Georgette, I’m warning you. My mom has a heart condition. If you try anything and upset her, I’ll make sure Jerry deals with you!”
Her voice was filled with anger and arrogance.
Yet I didn’t respond. I just hung up, face cold, and immediately called the property management office.
I told them I was the legal owner of the property and needed them to step in.
But what they said next completely caught me off guard.
“Miss Payne,” the manager said apologetically, “a woman named Beatrice Hicks came to us recently. She had a copy of the property certificate and claimed she was the owner.”
I was stunned.
Dad had bought this house for me. The original title deed was with me overseas. There shouldn’t be any other property document out there.
But according to them, someone had shown up with what looked like an official deed and registered it in their system.
“Miss Payne,” the manager continued, “there’s smoke in that unit almost every day. We tried contacting the owner, but the woman said it’s her house, and she can do whatever she wants. She also showed us the title, so we had no choice.”
I listened in silence, my face growing colder with every word.
I firmly told them again that I was the rightful owner and that I had the legal documents to prove it.
Then I immediately called my secretary overseas and asked her to find the property deed and send me a picture of it as soon as possible.
Once that was done, I was just about to call the police when Jerry called.
“Georgette, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
His voice was full of frustration. “I only let Beatrice’s mom stay there for a bit. She’s an elderly woman who didn’t have a place to go. What’s the big deal? You’re seriously blowing
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this out of proportion over a house? I already booked you a motel, didn’t I?”
With even sharper tone, he added, “Stop acting like some spoiled princess. I’m not going to indulge you anymore!”
I stared at my phone, absolutely livid.
To him, this was a small issue?
My house had been turned into a columbarium. He shoved me into a seven–bucks motel and ordered me to check out early in the morning as well.
This time, I’d had enough.
“Jerry,” I said coldly, “you’d better show up at my house right now. Or deal with the consequenc
Then I hung up.
Immediately, I called my father, who was still overseas, and finally let all my frustration spill
out
He listened quietly at first, but the moment I finished, his voice was seething with anger. “What the hell is Jerry thinking? For years, I’ve helped support their family business for his sake because he was supposed to marry you.”
Angrily snorting, he added, “Well, if he doesn’t want to be my son–in–law anymore, then so be it. From now on, we’re done doing business with their family.”
Mon,
A
