My Penthouse Is Your Prison

Summary

Coming home after a grueling three-month business trip, the first thing I noticed was that my front door lock had been changed.

I knocked twice. A middle-aged woman, her face twisted in a scowl, yanked the door open. She was wearing my silk pajamas.

"What the hell is your problem?" she snapped. "If you wake up my grandson, you're paying for it."

Through the crack in the door, I caught a glimpse of my custom-designed, sprawling living room. The European oak floors were covered in sunflower seed shells and unwashed laundry.