On my first night inside the $4.8 million Malibu beach house I bought with my own money, my mother-in-law called and said, “We’re moving in tomorrow, Marcus said it’s fine, and if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else.”

The best part: the contract was already signed and legally binding. Nothing Eleanor or Marcus could say or do would change what was about to happen.

October 11th, I hired Whitmore Luxury Relocations to handle my move.

“We need absolute discretion,” I told them. “No social media posts, no public schedules.”

“Understood, Miss Drexler. We handle celebrity moves regularly. Your privacy is guaranteed.”

I spent three days carefully selecting what would come to Malibu. My office setup was priority. A custom desk positioned to overlook the ocean, three monitors for analyzing market data, and a secure server for Meridian’s confidential files. This wasn’t just a beach house. It was my command center for an $8.5 million contract.

The master bedroom would be my sanctuary. I chose the linens myself: Italian cotton in ocean blues and whites, nothing from the house I’d shared with Marcus. The walk-in closet would hold my new wardrobe, purchased specifically for the CEO meetings and board presentations in my future. No more hiding my success under Eleanor’s prescribed “appropriate wife” aesthetic.