Sierra sobbed because her carefully curated TikTok backdrop—a corner of her room with fairy lights and a fake plant—was being dismantled.

Brandon panicked, trying to unplug and pack his gaming setup.

He’d left it for last, of course.

“You guys have to be careful with that!” he protested as a mover lifted his monitor.

“We’ll do our best, man,” the mover said. “But we’re on a timeline.”

Brandon’s precious ring light didn’t make it. One of the legs snapped.

I won’t lie. I laughed.

The best part, though, was the Great Designer Bag Reveal.

Tracy had built her persona on “classy elegance.” She’d parade around with Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel. Her friends ooh-ed and aah-ed.

As the movers packed, one of the handles tore slightly.

The pattern underneath the “leather”?

Plastic. Printed wrong.

A series of similar incidents followed.

Her “Hermès” Birkin? Uneven stamping. Wrong hardware color.

Her “Gucci” belt? Label on the wrong side.

By the time the movers were done, she had fewer “designer” items than she’d thought.

When everything that belonged to them was packed and labeled for the storage unit I’d rented (because I am not a monster), the sheriff’s deputy arrived for the walkthrough.

Standard procedure in an eviction. A neutral party to confirm I hadn’t done anything illegal. That I wasn’t throwing their stuff on the lawn or changing locks while they were in the shower.

The deputy was the same woman from the jewelry incident.

“Afternoon,” she said, hat tucked under her arm. “Let’s take a look.”

We walked through the house together.

Tracy tried one last tactic.

“She damaged my belongings,” she sniffed. “When the movers were going through my room, she told them to rush and they broke my things—”

“Ma’am,” the deputy said flatly, “there are cameras in this house. If you’d like to file a report for property damage, we can review the footage.”

Tracy shut her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.

We ended the walkthrough in the foyer.

“Everything looks in order,” the deputy said. She turned to me. “You did this by the book. Good job.”

Tracy stood on the porch with her kids, surrounded by boxes. The SUV she’d bragged about being “hers” sat in the driveway. In reality, it was leased under my dad’s company.

He’d already called the dealership. They were sending someone to retrieve it next week.

“Hope Tampa’s nice,” I said lightly.

She glared at me.