Blurb：
When Kate Holloway discovers her Mercedes G-Wagon missing from the garage, she confronts her housekeeper Susan Evans—only to learn Mrs. Evans casually lent Kate’s luxury car to her son Derek without permission. As tensions escalate over pistachio shells on Italian leather sofas and stolen truffle oil, Kate’s patience snaps. She dials 911 to report the stolen vehicle, igniting a furious showdown with the tyrannical Mrs. Evans, who treats Kate’s home as her own. Dive into this gripping tale of entitlement, betrayal, and revenge in a gated community where professional boundaries shatter. Will Kate reclaim her Mercedes, or will Susan Evans’ audacity prevail?Content：
The Mercedes was gone.My heels clicked on the polished concrete of the garage, the sound echoing in the empty space where the G-Wagon should have been.
Susan? I called out, walking into the house. Did you see where the Mercedes went?
The housekeeper, Mrs. Evans, was lounging on my custom-made Italian leather sofa, shelling pistachios. The television blared a daytime talk show, and she didn't bother to look away from the screen when I walked in. "My son took his girlfriend out for the day," she said, her tone casual, as if she were talking about the weather. "It's hard to get around without a car. You weren't using it, so I told him to go ahead."
I stared at her, at the discarded pistachio shells scattered on the floor around her. "You let your son take my car?"
"You have other cars," she said, finally turning to look at me, her expression one of mild annoyance, as if I were the one being unreasonable. "And you hardly ever drive that one. Better to let Derek get some use out of it than let it just sit there collecting dust." She tossed another shell onto the pile. "He'll even put gas in it for you. See? He's practically doing you a favor. Cars fall apart when you don't drive them."
My jaw tightened. "I want you to call your son. I want him to bring my car back. You have two hours."
She sighed, a heavy, put-upon sound. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. They're all the way downtown. It’s not convenient for them to come back now. Don't be so stingy."
I didn't say another word. I turned, walked straight to my bedroom, closed the door, and dialed 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hello," I said, my voice steady. "My name is Kate Holloway. I need to report a stolen vehicle."
Less than half an hour later, a frantic pounding erupted on my bedroom door.
"Kate! Open this door right now! You get out here!" Mrs. Evans shrieked, her voice raw with fury.
"You have the guts to call the cops on my son, but not the guts to open this door? Get out here, you little bitch!"
1
This woman, Susan Evans, had become a tyrant in my own home. Her audacity was breathtaking.
I’d overlooked her earlier transgressions, chalking them up to cultural differences or a lack of professional boundaries. I had even tried to gently remind her of her role, to suggest that she refrain from commenting on my personal life.
She hadn’t listened. If anything, my polite requests had only emboldened her. She’d started treating my deference as weakness, my home as her own, and my life as a project she needed to manage. She began speaking to me not as an employer, but as a disapproving, overbearing mother-in-law I never asked for.
It started small. Expensive cheeses and bottles of wine disappearing from the fridge. Then came the constant, unsolicited advice. She’d sneer at my takeout containers, telling me I’d never find a husband if I didn't learn to cook. She’d leave sinks full of dishes and patches of dusty floor for me to clean when I got home from a twelve-hour workday, clucking her tongue about my "laziness."
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