A holiday commercial flickered on the TV behind him—perfect families, fake laughter—while my marriage quietly collapsed.
I walked into the kitchen, poured water, and drank it slowly—making sure he saw my steady hands.
“Understood,” I said.
He seemed unsettled by my calm. “Good. Don’t try anything. My lawyer’s already involved. You’ll get what you deserve.”
I nodded once.
That night, I slept in the guest room.
By morning, Naomi had reviewed the records. Trent was technically correct—his name was on the deed.
What he didn’t know was the origin of the funds behind that deed.
And he definitely didn’t know who provided the down payment.
At 8:12 a.m., he banged on the guest room door.
Continue on the next page:
