The doorman of my building gives me a look I can't quite decipher as I enter.

I feel like a fucking criminal even though it's my father who committed all the crimes.

"Sir," he breathes. "I heard..." His voice drops. "About your father, the company, everything. I hope what they're saying isn't true?"

I sigh, tempted to roll my eyes. Why are all these people so keen on talking about this with me? I barely know a thing. Fuckwads.

"Look, Fred, I don't know what the fuck he's done but seems like this won't just blow over. I don't want anything to do with him. He fucked us over royally. I mean, I won't even have a fucking place to live after today."

Fred looks at me, eyes apologetic. He's got a son my age, one he talks about often when we run into each other. I bet he's thinking about him now, wondering how on earth a father could send his wife and son into the depths of debt without so much warning. I bet he wouldn't do that to his kid, to his precious Sylvia, his wife for over twenty-five years.

"I'm sorry, Edward..." He's been here forever, helped me move in, and talked to me once in a while. He's also seen me with every high-society girl I ever walked in with. Fred knows I'm not the best kind of guy. But I guess even I have some kind of quality he approves of.

"It's okay, I'll find my way," I mutter.

"My buddy told me about a studio going on the market in his building. He lives in Queens, nice enough neighborhood."

Oh, fuck no.

"Yeah, thanks for that, Fred. But I'm a city boy. I'm staying right here." My fingers curl around the worn leather around the seams of my mother's Gucci bag. I feel like a fucking travesty.

"Alright, if that's what you want. Although," he starts again and I see the words forming in his head. Something, something, money.

"Sorry, Fred, I really don't have a lot of time right now. I'll just go up and grab my stuff."

"The repo-people came while you were gone. They're gonna be here today. Again," he says again.

"I know, Fred. I fucking know."

My apartment feels even more empty than usual. I look at all the shit I bought over the years. At the investment art pieces along the walls. They don't even add that much color, at the white couch on the black rug that helps with the everlasting echo here.

I don't really care about any piece of furniture here. Mother is the one who loves to decorate. She always leaves something whenever she comes over unannounced.

Letting out a groan, I run a hand through my hair as I put the bag full of cash on my dining room table.

I'm so fucking screwed.

What does one take with them when they're being shunned out of their house, and society?

I wonder what mom took with her besides the cash. I suppose everything is replaceable, so I take as much clothes as fit into the large rolling suitcase I have in storage downstairs and a couple pairs of shoes before I notice there's not as much as there was before.

Weird.

Maybe the housekeeper has sent some stuff off to be dry-cleaned.

But then I notice most my shoes are gone as well. Three pairs left. My gym shoes, Armani dress shoes and the Jack Wolfskin hiker boots I've never worn before.

What the actual fuck?

Then I look around my bedroom. There's no laptop on my nightstand, no iPad, no surround system. Hell, even the flatscreen is gone.

Holy mother of fuck.

They've already taken most of my high-end stuff.

My housekeeper left a note, telling me Brutus is with her, and that he's safe in Brooklyn.

So that's where I am. In fucking Brooklyn without a fancy invitation, or plans for a party. Or any friends. Instead I find myself looking at the building in front of me, knocking twice on the door of 4B once I'm inside and climbed the stairs.

"Fuck, Mr. Cullen," Maria gasps as she sees me and my bags in her hallway. She motions for me to come in, and the pitter-patter of my French Bulldog sounds like music in my ears. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting you to show up here. The place is a mess."

I look at her mess that looks like home, crayons scattered onto a worn, IKEA dinner table, the little blonde-haired girl not even looking up from her drawing. The smell of lasagna lingers in the air and I realize I haven't had a home-cooked meal in over a decade. Give or take.

"Gaby, this is my boss, Mr. Cullen," Maria says to her daughter. I get a polite smile as the kid looks up at me. "If I can still call you that, you know…" Maria goes on.

"What happened?" I ask her while Brutus just lays in the corner of the living room, snoozing off.

"I was cleaning and then police showed up. They told me to call your father and then he so kindly dismissed me and basically fired me on the spot."

"Motherfucker," I mutter under my breath.

"I brought the dog because I had no idea when you'd be back in the country. Couldn't leave my poor friend homeless, you know?"

"I need a big favor, Maria," I say as I watch my dog be more comfortable here than he ever was at home.

"Yes?" She crosses her arms in front of her chest, wisps of black hair framing her face.

"Can you watch Brutus for a little while longer? I have some business I need to take care off." I bite my lip nervously, with not a single clue as to how I'm gonna pull this off.

"Business?" She asks warily.

"Family business."