Eliana POV
The needle tugged at my skin, a sharp, rhythmic pinch.
The emergency room doctor stitched my forehead with efficient, cold hands.
"Six stitches," he said, snipping the thread. "You should file a police report."
"I have a better idea."
I didn't hesitate. I called Laura, my father's old lawyer.
"File the papers," I told her, my voice steady. "And get a restraining order. Use the medical report from tonight."
"Consider it done," Laura said, her voice sharp as a guillotine blade. "Do you want to freeze the assets?"
"Not yet. Let him feel safe for a few more hours. It makes the fall harder."
I left the hospital with blood drying on my collar and went straight to a hardware store.
Then, I called Craig.
Craig wasn't just an old friend from art school; he was a pyromaniac who channeled his impulses into metal sculpture.
"I need a favor," I said. "And I need a crew."
Two hours later, we were standing in the lobby of the penthouse building.
I had a fresh bandage on my head and a legal document in my hand that proved I wasn't just a resident-I was the landlord.
The doorman stepped forward, his hand raising in a futile stop gesture.
"Mr. Powell said-"
"Mr. Powell isn't here," I said, shoving the digital copy of the deed toward his face. "And unless you want to be named in a lawsuit for obstructing an owner, you'll let us up. We're doing renovations."
He looked at the document, then at the sledgehammers. He stepped aside.
Craig brought four guys. They carried sledgehammers, crowbars, and power drills like they were weapons of war.
We went up.
Dustin and Jami were gone.
Probably at the hospital checking on her fake pregnancy scare.
"What's the plan?" Craig asked, looking around the pristine, high-tech living room that smelled of lemon polish and lies.
"You see these panels?" I pointed to the walls. "The smart home system. The climate control. The security grid. The automated lighting."
"Yeah?"
"I designed it. I coded it. I installed it."
I picked up a crowbar.
It felt heavy and good in my hands, like a gavel.
"Tear it out."
"All of it?"
"Every wire. Every sensor. Every chip. I want this apartment to be as dumb as he is."
Craig grinned, a wicked, boyish thing.
"Music to my ears."
The sound of destruction was a symphony.
The crunch of drywall. The wet snap of severed wires. The shattering of glass touchscreens.
We ripped the thermostat off the wall, leaving a jagged hole.
We pulled the voice-command speakers from the ceiling like pulling teeth.
We dismantled the automated blinds until they hung crooked and broken, blocking out the city view.
Dustin's "smart" life was built on my brain.
Now, I was taking my brain back.
I went to the kitchen.
I took the customized espresso machine-the one he loved more than me-and smashed it on the floor.
Ceramic and steel exploded across the tile.
Then I took the broken pieces of my mother's ring from my pocket.
I handed them to Craig.
"Can you melt this?"
"Here? Now?"
"Yes. Use the torch."
He set up a small crucible on the granite countertop to catch the molten runoff.
I watched as the flame licked the gold.
It turned red, then liquid.
The shape of the ring disappeared.
The memories attached to it-my mother giving it to me, Dustin putting it on my finger-dissolved into a glowing blob.
"Done," Craig said.
He poured the gold into a small mold he had brought.
It cooled into a rough, ugly lump.
I took a marker and wrote on the granite counter next to it: Payment for the stitches.
The door beeped.
Dustin walked in.
He stopped dead.
Jami shrieked behind him.
The apartment looked like a war zone.
Wires hung from the ceiling like exposed guts. Drywall dust coated the expensive leather furniture like snow.
"What... what did you do?" Dustin stammered, his face draining of color.
"I'm renovating," I said, dropping the crowbar. It clattered loudly on the floor, echoing in the sudden silence.
"You're insane! You destroyed my house!"
"Our house," I corrected. "And technically, I just removed the proprietary technology I installed. Intellectual property rights, Dustin. Look them up."
"I'm calling the cops!"
"Go ahead," I said, pointing to the fresh blood seeping through my bandage. "I'm sure they'd love to hear about how I got this."
He froze.
He looked at the bandage. He looked at the destruction.
He realized, for the first time, that he had no control here.
"Why?" he whispered.
I walked past him.
My friends packed up their tools and followed me, like a praetorian guard.
I stopped at the door and looked back at the ruin of his perfect life.
"I'm just taking out the trash, Dustin," I said. "And you're the biggest pile of all."
I stepped into the elevator.
As the doors closed, I saw him sink to his knees in the dust.
I didn't feel sad.
I felt lightweight. I felt free.
