Page 6 — The Text About “Car Keys” And The Asset He Thought Was His
My phone buzzed minutes later.
Ryan: “Okay, you win. But I need the car keys. Mom can’t walk. At least let us take the Audi.”
I smiled.
Not because I was being petty.
Because it confirmed he still didn’t understand what ownership meant.
I typed back:
“Check the garage. Spot #45.”
I stepped onto the balcony and let the cold morning air hit my face.
Down in the concrete belly of the building, I pictured it perfectly:
- Ryan demanding the keys.
- Ryan demanding the valet.
- Ryan demanding “his” car.
But Spot #45 would be empty.
The Audi wasn’t stolen.
It was recalled.
Company lease.
Company asset.
And he—no longer authorized—wasn’t entitled to touch it.
I went back inside, walked to the study, and set my desk upright with one heavy shove.
It landed with a solid thud—like punctuation.
I opened my laptop.
- Joint account: closed.
- Corporate account: secure.
- Personal savings: intact.
Then I called my assistant.
“Cancel my meetings today,” I said.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m just doing spring cleaning.”
Freedom isn’t free.
It costs planning. It costs courage.
And sometimes it costs a locksmith at 10:00 p.m. on a random Tuesday.
But the receipt?
I kept it.
Because it reminded me of the only thing that matters:
If you paid for the fortress, you get to decide who lives inside it.
