They Stole My Mansion, So I Sent Them to Prison

“I'm so sorry—I accidentally knocked over that bottle of wine while I was cleaning.”

“That dinnerware set was getting old. I noticed cracks when I was washing it and was worried you might cut yourself, so I went ahead and threw it out.”

“I took that suit to the dry cleaner's, and they lost it.”

Every excuse sounded thin, but her attitude was always apologetic enough that I let it go.

I figured that would be the end of it.

Then Memorial Day came. After visiting my parents' graves, I decided to drive out to the country estate where they'd spent most of their lives and give the place a proper cleaning.

It was their favorite place in the world.

The courtyard was full of the flowers my mother had loved most, and every room held souvenirs my father had brought back from his travels.

Before she died, my mother had held my hand and told me the house was her and my father's life's work. She made me promise to take care of it.

I cherished that estate. Even though being there stirred up memories I wasn't ready to face, I still went back regularly after moving out on my own, wiping down every piece of furniture, trimming every plant in the courtyard.

But this time, I froze the moment I reached the front gate.

The gate, always locked, was standing wide open.

From inside the house came the thud of music turned up loud enough to rattle windows, layered with laughter and shouting.

I walked straight in and pushed open the front door.

I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

The living room was destroyed.

Empty bottles, snack wrappers, fruit peels, sunflower-seed shells, and cigarette butts covered the coffee table, the couches, the floor.

Burn after burn after burn—black cigarette holes scorched straight through the leather sofa, the one that had cost a fortune.

My mother's beloved Persian rug was trampled with muddy footprints and splashed with red wine.

The keepsakes on the walls had been pulled down, some used as photo props, others smashed and tossed into corners.

My fists clenched so hard my knuckles ached.

My parents had lived here for half their lives. Every piece of furniture, every item on display, they had chosen themselves.

Whenever I was here, I walked carefully, afraid of bumping even the smallest thing.

And now the whole place had been trashed beyond recognition.

I scanned the room and found Calvin sitting on the couch directly facing the door.

His classmates crowded around him：

“Calvin, your family is insane rich. Even a random country house looks like this?”

“Seriously, I just looked it up. Any one of those paintings on the wall is worth millions.”

“Oh my God, your mom is unreal. No wonder she's a billionaire!”

“Hey, for old times' sake, once you inherit all this, think you could hook us up with jobs at your family's company?”

Calvin's lips curled higher with every word：“Easy. Stick with me, and none of you will ever have to worry about money again.”

His classmates lit up, tripping over each other to flatter him even harder.

That was when Calvin spotted me in the doorway.

The grin dropped off his face. He stood and walked toward me, chin high.

Crack.

Without a word, he drove his fist straight into my face：

“You pathetic deadbeat—you actually followed me here?”

The punch came out of nowhere and locked me in place.

Every classmate in the room stared：

“Calvin, what's going on?”

He jabbed a finger at me, face twisted with contempt：

“This right here is Kieran—the little mooch I was just telling you about!”