He came around to the front entrance with that same long, expensive stride I once mistook for confidence and now recognized as entitlement dressed in posture. The locksmith, a broad-shouldered man named Eddie who had worked on three of my rental properties before and knew better than to get involved emotionally, stood up and stepped aside just enough for me to unlock the inner glass door while keeping the outer one secured.
Grant stared at the new hardware, then at me.
“What is this?”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny, but because the question was so pure in its arrogance. He had issued an ultimatum over property I owned before I met him, over a clinic I built while he was still drifting upward through junior commercial real estate roles, and now he wanted me to explain why those doors no longer opened for him.
“This,” I said through the glass, “is my answer.”
His expression shifted—shock first, then anger, then that particular disbelief that comes when a man realizes a woman has made a decisive move without asking for his approval.
“You changed the locks?”
“Yes.”
“You’re overreacting.”
