At 6 a.m., my mother-in-law’s screams echoed through the entire building. “You changed the locks on our apartment?!” My husband burst in, pointing at my face and yelling, “Give me the keys. Now.” I couldn’t help but laugh. That apartment had never been theirs – not a single dollar of it. I calmly slid a white envelope across the table. “You should read this first.” What happened next left their world completely collapsed.

I turned around and walked back to the living room. I didn’t make tea.

I sat on the white leather sofa and picked up my phone. My hands were not shaking. A strange, icy calm had settled over me. It was the calm of a sniper waiting for the wind to die down.

I scrolled past Ryan’s name. I scrolled past my therapist’s name. I stopped at a contact labeled “OMEGA SECURITY – 24/7.”

I typed a text message:
Protocol 7. Full re-key. Tonight. Biometric installation. Platinum package. I will pay triple for immediate dispatch and discretion.

The reply came twenty seconds later:
Technician is ten minutes away.

I set the phone down and opened my laptop. But I wasn’t looking at earnings reports anymore. I opened a hidden folder encrypted with a 24-character password.

The folder was named “Project Clean Slate.”

Cliffhanger:
I was reviewing the final document—a digital forensic timeline of Ryan’s “business expenses”—when I heard Ryan laughing in the kitchen with his mother. They were toasting. To the new sewing room, I assumed.

I looked at the clock. 8:45 PM. The locksmith would be here in five minutes. I needed a distraction to get them out of the house for exactly one hour.

“Ryan!” I called out, forcing a sweetness into my tone that made me nauseous. “Since you guys are celebrating… why don’t you take your mom out for ice cream? On me. Take the Black Card.”

Ryan poked his head around the corner, eyes lighting up. “Really? You’re not mad?”

“No,” I lied, my finger hovering over the ‘Execute’ button on my laptop screen. “I just want peace. Go. Treat yourselves.”

He grinned, grabbed the credit card from the counter, and ushered Karen out the door.

As the elevator doors slid shut, hiding his smiling face, I whispered to the empty room: “Enjoy it, Ryan. It’s the last thing you’ll ever buy with my money.”

The hour that followed was a blur of surgical precision.

The technician, a man named Silas, worked with the efficiency of a special forces operative. He didn’t ask questions. He saw the expensive furniture, the tense woman in the business suit, and he understood the narrative immediately.

The standard luxury deadbolts were removed. In their place, Silas installed the Krypton-V Biometric System. Matte black, sleek, and impenetrable. It required a fingerprint and a retinal scan to open.

“It’s active, Ms. Vance,” Silas said, packing his tools. “Only your biometrics are encoded. Anyone else tries to use a key, a card, or a bump tool… the system will lock down and silent-alarm the precinct.”

“Perfect,” I said, handing him a check that could have bought a small car. “Thank you, Silas.”

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