Chapter 2The Blueprint of Memories

For the very first time, Ethan actually stopped and looked at me.

The HOA manager was frantically backpedaling, sweating profusely. He claimed the authorization form was forwarded to them directly by Ethan's project management team, and that the HOA was only responsible for unlocking the gate.

Ethan didn't try to cover for him. He just turned to his assistant and asked, "Who was the project manager who submitted this?"

No one had an immediate answer. And I wasn't going to stand in the driveway debating it.

With the police present, the HOA was forced to transfer the digital lock permissions back to me. I stepped inside to assess the damage.

The moment I pushed the heavy oak doors open, I finally understood what Ethan meant by "the demolition is already underway."

It wasn't just fresh paint or new furniture.

Half of the original, hand-carved mahogany staircase leading to the second floor had been violently ripped out. The load-bearing wall separating the living room and my father's study had been completely demolished. The original hardwood floors had been ripped up, replaced by massive slabs of cold, gray marble.

The floor-to-ceiling elm wood bookshelf that my father had commissioned a local artisan to build was entirely gone. The heavy, scarred oak dining table that my family had eaten dinner at every night for fifteen years had vanished.

The guest bedroom in the back had been gutted and converted into a massive walk-in closet. Hanging against the freshly painted walls was a row of designer wedding dresses, the price tags still attached.

I stood frozen in the center of the room for a very long time.

Ethan walked in behind me. His tone was slightly less arrogant than it had been outside. "The initial demolition was extensive, I admit. But everything can be restored. I will personally cover 100% of the architectural and contracting fees to rebuild it. I will also purchase a brand-new property for you in this exact same zip code. That is more than enough to compensate you for the inconvenience."

"I don't want a new property."

"Then how much cash do you want?"

"I want my original house back."

He fell silent for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, he sounded incredibly frustrated, as if I were a child refusing to understand basic logic. "Ms. Quinn, the woodwork has been destroyed. Even if I hire master carpenters to rebuild it from scratch, it is physically impossible to make it 100% identical. Be realistic. Why not just accept the settlement package that is overwhelmingly in your financial favor?"

I didn't bother engaging with him anymore. I pulled out my phone, opened the photo gallery, and began methodically comparing the current state of the house to photos I had taken years ago.

I aggressively documented every single missing structural element. For the items I couldn't locate, I demanded the HOA manager log them.

The manager shadowed me nervously, desperately promising that the vast majority of the "old furniture" had simply been moved to a storage warehouse off-site.

When I reached the area that used to be my father's study, my footsteps halted.

Right below the window, there used to be an antique camphor wood chest.

It didn't hold gold, silver, or priceless heirlooms.

It held the things I had never possessed the emotional strength to sort through after my parents died in the crash. Family photo albums, the original deed to the house, and several leather-bound journals filled with my father's handwritten notes.

The space beneath the window was completely empty.

"Where is the chest?"

The HOA manager panicked. "It... it should be in the warehouse!"

"Which warehouse?"

"The project management team is utilizing two different facilities... I have to call and check."

"Check. Right now."

He frantically dialed several numbers, his forehead glistening with heavy sweat.

Finally, a demolition foreman answered. The foreman admitted that during the initial clean-out, they had seen a beat-up wooden chest.

However, because the wood at the base was warped and cracked from water damage, the interior design team categorized it as "Non-Salvageable Debris." It was thrown into a dumpster along with the drywall and shattered wood.

My voice was like ice. "Where was the dumpster taken?"

The line was dead silent for a long time.

"The municipal construction landfill."

This time, even Ethan's face drained of color.

He instantly barked orders at his assistant to deploy a team to the landfill. He turned to me, his voice tight. "As long as it hasn't been incinerated, I will have a crew dig through the trash all night until they find it."

"Fine."

I pulled out my phone and dialed my lawyer.

Ethan's eyes narrowed. He realized exactly what was happening. "Are you really taking this to litigation?"

I looked up at him.

"Absolutely. If the items are recovered, the house is restored, and I am financially compensated, what exactly are you losing?"

I stared at him for a few seconds. "Do you genuinely believe that as long as you have the capital to pay the settlement at the end, the illegal, sociopathic things you do to get what you want just magically don't count?"

He didn't have an answer.

Half an hour later, my attorney, Mr. Davis, arrived. We had barely finished cataloging half the missing inventory when the HOA manager's phone rang again.

When he hung up, he looked like he was about to vomit.

"Ms. Quinn... they found the chest at the landfill."

I opened my mouth to speak, but he couldn't even make eye contact with me.