They Faked Death, I Sold Their Assets

Chapter 2 The Widow's Revenge

The morning after we officially had Marcus and Derek declared dead, furious pounding exploded against the front door.

"Open up! Ms. York! Ms. Whitemoore! Pay your damn debts!" Victor had returned with his men.

I shook Helen awake immediately.

The moment she opened her eyes, she grabbed my arm so hard her nails nearly pierced my skin.

"Don't panic," I whispered, helping her sit upright. "Just follow the plan we discussed yesterday."

Then I walked over and opened the door.

Victor stood outside with several broad-shouldered men crowding behind him, completely blocking the entrance. None of them looked remotely friendly.

"So?" Victor demanded the second he saw me. "Have you figured out how you're paying yet?"

Helen hurried behind me, her entire body trembling as she spoke through tears. "Mr. Warren, please… just give us a few more days. I truly have no other options right now…"

The fear in her voice sounded painfully convincing because it was real.

I stepped protectively in front of her and forced myself to sound calm despite the panic clawing inside me.

"We acknowledge the debt," I said carefully. "But selling property takes time. Give us one week. Within one week, we'll have the money."

Victor narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked us over in silence, clearly judging whether we were lying. After a long moment, he finally let out a cold snort. "Fine. One week."

Then his expression darkened. "But if you try anything stupid…"

He jabbed a threatening finger toward us before finally leaving with his men.

The second the door shut, Helen collapsed weakly against it and buried her face in her hands as quiet sobs escaped her.

I crouched beside her and gripped her shoulders tightly.

"Mom, listen to me." My voice came out far harsher than usual. "There's no time left to cry. Tears won't save us. They showed us no mercy, so we can't afford mercy either. If we want to survive this, we have to be even more ruthless than they are."

Helen stared at me blankly through tear-filled eyes. Slowly, the terror and despair in her expression began giving way to her survival instinct. She took several shaky breaths before finally forcing herself to calm down.

"You're right," she whispered hoarsely. "We have to survive."

We immediately returned to the study and began inventorying every remaining asset in the house.

The results were horrifying. Aside from the real estate itself, nearly all liquid funds and anything easily convertible into cash had already been transferred away.

"There are still Derek's antiques and paintings," Helen said suddenly, clinging to the last shred of hope she had left.

I immediately contacted a trusted appraiser friend and asked him to come over.

After carefully examining several of Derek's so-called treasures displayed throughout the study, he finally sighed helplessly.

"Anna. Ms. York." He pointed toward the antique porcelain vase Derek loved showing off to guests. "This replica is decently made, but at most it's worth a few thousand dollars."

He paused briefly. "As for the real one… it was probably swapped out a long time ago."

The final trace of hope vanished from Helen's face completely. She staggered backward and had to grab the bookshelf to steady herself.

"He lied to me," she murmured numbly. "He lied to me our entire marriage."

The agony in her eyes looked almost unbearable.

"Mom." I grabbed her shoulders again and forced her to look directly at me. "Do you understand now? They never planned to leave us any way out. The only people we can rely on now are ourselves."

Helen's chest rose and fell violently before she finally nodded. "Fine," she said through clenched teeth. "I'll follow your lead."

From that moment on, we began liquidating everything at terrifying speed.

I called a real estate agent immediately. "Urgent sale," I told him. "Every property. Twenty percent below market value. Cash buyers only."

The moment he heard the commission terms, excitement flashed across his face.

Within hours, Derek's Mercedes, Marcus's Porsche, and the family's Audi had all been inspected, priced, and transferred to new owners almost immediately.

As for the fake antiques, my appraiser friend helped connect me with a salvage dealer who bought the entire collection in one batch for a hundred thousand dollars, cash upfront and no questions asked.

Throughout the entire process, Helen stayed quietly by my side, watching movers label the furniture, strangers drive away in the cars her husband and son once cherished, and the life she had spent decades building disappear piece by piece before her eyes.

Her face remained pale the entire time, but her gaze slowly became harder and colder. At one point, she even took the initiative to retrieve Derek's personal seal and firmly stamp the authorization papers I had prepared in advance. The soft thud of the seal hitting paper sounded strangely final.

Within seventy-two hours, we gathered forty-eight million dollars. Little by little, the money was transferred into an overseas account I had secretly opened under a false identity.

By dawn on the fourth day, the villa had been stripped nearly bare. Only two suitcases remained. Helen and I dragged them silently out of the house together like ghosts leaving behind a graveyard of lies.

The taxi carried us toward the airport.

Throughout the drive, Helen stared quietly out the window at the city streets passing by while tears streamed silently down her face. But this time, she was no longer crying for the dead. She was mourning the life she once believed she had.

I squeezed her freezing hand gently. "Mom," I said softly, "from now on, we live for ourselves."