Daniel.
I already knew why.
Because someone had just knocked on the front door of that mansion.
And they weren’t there for a visit.
I answered the fourth doorbell.
“Who the hell is in my house?” he shouted.
I lay down in my chair.
Those papers were still drying next to me.
“They are the representatives of the new owner,” I said calmly.
“You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Silence.
Then, panic.
“You can’t do this!” he said. “That’s my house!”
I almost smiled.
“My house,” I repeated. “What a curious word.”
Then I told him the truth.
“I had every right to sell it. The same right I had when I paid for it. The same right I had yesterday… when you hit me thirty times in a house that was never yours.”
He remained silent.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“I’ve already done it.”
And I hung up.
That same afternoon, everything began to fall apart.
They were changing the locks.
The staff was confused.
The illusion had vanished.
But the house was just the beginning.
Because once the truth came out, everything else came to light as well.
You had been using that house to impress investors… presenting it as if it were your estate… building a false image of success on something that didn’t belong to you.
