“And Mr. Morrison, the person who submitted that application is at my gate right now trying to break in.”
“Ma’am, forging signatures on loan documents is a federal crime. We’re obligated to report this to the FBI.”
On my security monitor, Eleanor was now screaming at the guards, waving papers in their faces.
Behind her, a moving truck waited along with three women I recognized from her charity committee.
David’s phone buzzed with the bank’s email.
He opened the attachments, and we both stared at the evidence.
Eleanor had signed my name on five different documents, claiming sole ownership of the property.
The bank security footage attached to the email showed her clearly at the desk, pen in hand.
“This is incredibly stupid,” David said. “She did this in full view of cameras, with witnesses, leaving a paper trail. It’s like she thought rules don’t apply to her.”
“They never have before,” I replied, watching Eleanor call the police on my security guards. “She’s always gotten what she wanted through bullying and manipulation.”
“Not this time. This is wire fraud, forgery, and attempted grand theft. She’s looking at federal charges.”
By 11 a.m., the scene at my gate looked like a circus.
Eleanor had arrived with a full moving truck, three assistants, her decorator, and four members of her charity committee, all expecting a grand tour of Eleanor’s new beach house.
“I’m calling my lawyer about this harassment!” Eleanor screamed at my security guard, who remained professionally unmoved.
“Ma’am, this is private property. Without written authorization from the owner, you cannot enter,” the guard repeated calmly.
