I sat quietly on the sofa in the living room of our collab house, listening to the lead creator loudly announce to the camera that I was being kicked out of the mansion because my follower count had dropped below their minimum requirement.
My name is Chloe Finch. At twenty-eight years old, with my blonde curls framing my face and wearing a simple knit sweater, I stood near the massive glass walls of our modern luxury mansion in Los Angeles, California. Outside, the afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over the blue swimming pool and the palm trees in the backyard. But the atmosphere inside the living room was freezing. Chad Miller, twenty-five, with stylish hair and wearing a colorful designer hoodie, stood in front of me with an arrogant, smirking posture, pointing mockingly and raising his voice to his camera crew.
“It’s just business, Chloe,” Chad sneered, tapping the eviction clipboard he held. “Our contract says everyone in this house has to maintain at least two million followers to justify the rent. You’ve been stuck at one point eight for three months, and you’re dragging down our group valuation. We’ve cast the vote, and we are signing the eviction resolution now. You have twenty-four hours to pack your things and find another apartment.”
I looked at him, keeping my posture calm and my expression resolute. I had spent a year helping build this brand, working behind the scenes to edit their videos, negotiate their sponsorships, and manage their schedules. When Chad and his friends had been sued by their former management group for defaulting on their launch fees, I had secretly used my savings to settle the dispute. They believed I was just a quiet helper who was lucky to share their luxury lifestyle. They had no idea that I had spent the last two weeks dealing with the mansion’s owner and our legal team. They were so busy tracking their engagement metrics and planning their next viral challenge that they ignored the warning letters from the estate’s manager regarding their unpaid rent balances.
“I won’t be packing my things, Chad,” I said quietly, my voice steady.
Chad let out a loud, mocking laugh, looking at the other housemates who stood by the stairs. “You think you have a choice? This is my collab house. I’m the one who organized the sponsorship deal with the agency. If you won’t leave quietly, we’ll have security remove you. We cannot let an under-performing creator occupy the master suite.”
Without saying another word, I reached into my bag and pulled out a large, heavy sheet of paper. I unfolded the certified master lease document and placed it flat on the glass coffee table right in front of him.
“I suggest you look at the signature on this master lease, Chad,” I said, keeping my hands folded in my knit sweater.
Chad rolled his eyes, his manicured fingers tapping the table. “What is this? A copy of the rules? I told you, I make the house rules.”
“It’s not a rule book, Chad,” I replied calmly. “It’s the original master lease for this entire estate. And the transfer certificate from the landlord.”
Chad’s smirk froze. He snatched the document off the table, his eyes scanning the bank seals and notary stamps. I watched his face as his arrogant posture began to stiffen, then collapse completely. The color drained from his face, leaving him a pasty, sickly white. His hand began to tremble, the clipboard shaking in his grasp as he stared at the red-inked measurements and the name of the tenant.
“This… this is a mistake,” Chad whispered, his voice cracking as he looked up. “The agency said they held the lease. We’ve been paying our rent to them. We signed the sub-lease paperwork last year.”
“The agency defaulted on the lease two months ago, Chad,” I replied quietly. “They spent the sponsor funds on their own corporate expenses instead of paying the landlord. The landlord was preparing to evict the entire house, and he was going to sue you for the remaining balance. I bought out the lease using my private trust funds and transferred the title to my holding company last week. The agency is out of the picture. And under the terms of this master lease, I am the sole recognized tenant of this mansion. You are currently subtenants, and you have been trespassing since the default.”
Chad stood frozen next to the glass walls, the master lease trembling in his hand, his eyes wide in sudden horror as he realized that the quiet woman in the knit sweater he had tried to throw out was actually his landlord.
“Chloe, wait,” Chad stammered, his stylish hair falling out of place as he took a step forward, his arrogant smirking posture completely evaporating. “We can work this out. We are partners. We have the brand launch next week with the tech sponsors. If we get evicted, the sponsors will cancel the contracts. We can… we can merge our channels. We can give you a thirty percent stake in the group’s revenue, and we’ll put your name on the front gate. Let’s not make a public scene.”
“I don’t want your revenue, Chad,” I said, looking at him with absolute calm. “You spent months treating me like a servant, demanding I work late hours to edit your videos while you took all the credit. You stood in front of that camera just minutes ago trying to humiliate me to gain views. You only care about partners now because you realize you’re about to lose your luxury roof. I settled your debts to protect the crew and the staff who work here, not to save your career.”
Just then, Mr. Sterling, the landlord’s senior representative, walked into the living room. He was a tall man in a dark grey suit, carrying a set of keys and a legal notice. He walked straight to the table, ignoring Chad.
“The lease transfer is fully executed, Ms. Finch,” Mr. Sterling said. “And the court has dismissed the agency’s claim. As of nine a.m. yesterday, you have full possession of this estate. The subtenants are in violation, and we have the eviction order signed by the county judge.”
Chad’s housemates quickly turned on him. “Chad, you told us the agency had the lease under control!” one of them shouted, pointing a finger at him. “You said you handled the payments out of our sponsor shares!”
“I am giving the rest of you a choice,” I said, looking at the other creators. “I will be restructuring the collab house under completely new guidelines. The creators who actually contribute to the team and treat others with respect can sign new leases directly with me. But Chad, your subtenant contract is terminated immediately. You have until five p.m. to pack your designer bags and leave my property.”
Chad sat frozen in the chair, his mouth opening and closing in shock. The lead creator who had tried to evict me to gain social media clout was now completely exposed. With a trembling hand, he picked up his phone, stood up slowly, and walked out the door in silence, his camera crew following him in a panic.
I sat back on the sofa, looking out the glass walls at the blue swimming pool. The collab house was finally free from his toxic greed, and we had a brand new, fair future to build.