Ethan laughed first.
Not because anything was funny. Because men like him laugh when the script stops serving them. “Sophia, come on. Stop being ridiculous.”
Carol folded her arms. “This is a marital home now. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
You looked from one to the other and thought, not for the first time, how often arrogance survives by outsourcing details. Carol had spent Ethan’s entire life telling people her son was brilliant, gifted, extraordinary, destined for bigger rooms than everyone else. Ethan, in turn, had learned that sounding confident was often enough to keep other people from checking the paperwork. Neither of them had ever developed a healthy relationship with facts.
You set the deed down on the patio table before the wind could take it and pulled out your phone.
Ethan’s smile faded by a fraction. “Who are you calling?”
“The people who understand property law better than you do.”
That line landed.
He came downstairs a minute later with the heavy, irritated steps of a man who still believed dominance was a matter of volume. Carol followed close behind, clutching a champagne flute she had found in your kitchen and now seemed unwilling to surrender on principle. They stepped out onto the patio like they were meeting a difficult contractor rather than the owner of the house they had just attempted to take over.
Ethan held out his hand. “Give me the deed.”
