Chapter 2

After the neighbor walked away, I took a deep breath and knocked loudly on the door.

An older woman in her late fifties, wearing an apron, opened the door. She looked me up and down with intense suspicion. "Who are you?"

Her question almost made me laugh. Who was I? I was the owner of this freaking apartment!

"Is this your place?" I asked, suppressing the rage boiling inside me.

"If it's not mine, is it yours?" she snapped back.

I nodded. "Actually, yes. It is mine." With that, I pushed past her and walked right in.

I loved the minimalist cream-and-beige aesthetic, so when I designed the place, everything was pristine, white, and organized.

But now? The once-fluffy cream carpet was a dingy, filthy gray. There were muddy footprints scattered across the white porcelain tiles. The couch was buried under piles of dirty laundry, and my favorite hanging egg chair had been broken and tossed into a corner, covered in trash.

The further I walked in, the angrier I got.

The kitchen floor was littered with rotting vegetables, with dark, smelly water pooling in the corners. The premium pots and pans I had spent hours selecting were caked in grease and piled high in the sink. The toilet bowl had a thick layer of grime, and my foot basin was filled with dirty underwear that looked like it had been soaking for days.

I didn't even dare to walk into the master bedroom. That was my personal sanctuary, and I was terrified that if I saw it trashed, I would actually lose my mind and do something illegal.

Deep breaths. I had to take deep breaths. There had to be an explanation.

"Hey! Who do you think you are, barging into someone's home without permission?!"

"Are you insane? Walking around a stranger's house like you own the place! Where are your manners?!"

Martha—the older woman—had followed me as I toured the apartment. She finally seemed to snap and started screaming at me.

I clenched my fists, trying with every fiber of my being not to yell. "Are you absolutely sure this is your apartment? Did you perhaps get the unit number wrong?"

I had read news stories about people accidentally renovating the wrong apartment, or moving into the wrong unit by mistake after being away for a long time. I didn't know how they got the keys, but I figured maybe some weird mix-up had happened here.

But Martha only got angrier.

"What do you mean, 'your apartment, my apartment'? This is my house! My daughter bought it for me! Let me tell you, don't think you can bully me just because I'm an old woman living here alone. I'm not someone you can mess with!"

"Fine. Fine." I took three deep breaths and pulled out my phone. This was beyond my control, and it was definitely beyond hers. But the police could handle it.

"911? Yes, I'd like to report an emergency. My apartment has been illegally occupied by squatters."

"You... you called the cops?! You're playing the victim! You're the one who broke into my house! You're calling the cops to get yourself arrested!"

Martha was still yelling when the front door clicked open. A woman in her thirties walked in, holding the hand of a seven-year-old boy. They both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me.

"Who are you?" the younger woman demanded.

I let out a cold laugh. "I own this place, and you're asking me who I am? I should be asking you. You're occupying my property and acting like you own the joint."

"Ha! Your apartment? You're hilarious. We don't even know you! What proof do you have that this is yours?"

"I already called the police. We'll find out who owns it in about ten minutes."

Ten minutes later, two police officers arrived. I gave them a detailed breakdown of the situation and showed them my digital deed, the purchase contract, and the renovation receipts on my phone.

The officers' brows furrowed as they reviewed the documents. Finally, one officer turned to the two women. "Ma'am, according to public records and these documents, this property legally belongs to this gentleman."

The two women immediately lost their minds. "Impossible! My daughter bought this condo for me!"

The officer paused. "And who is your daughter?"

Martha puffed out her chest proudly. "My daughter is Lily Vance."