I touched my cheek, then looked at Eric.
He finally spoke. “Maybe you should stay at a hotel tonight until everyone calms down.”
That hurt more than the slap.
I nodded once. “Fine.”
Diane smirked.
Kyle lifted his beer. “Problem solved.”
I grabbed my handbag and headed for the door.
Then I turned back.
“Enjoy the house tonight,” I said.
Eric frowned. “What does that mean?”
I gave him the first smile I had managed all evening.
“It means,” I said, “just wait until morning.”
What none of them remembered was that Eric had never contributed a dollar toward buying that house.
And what none of them knew was that six months earlier, after noticing something suspicious in our joint accounts, I had quietly transferred the property into a trust he could not touch. The deed, camera footage, and bank records were all waiting for exactly the mistake they had just made.
I didn’t go to a hotel.
I drove directly to the office of Maya Chen, the attorney who had handled my father’s estate and, more recently, my asset-protection plan.
At 9:14 p.m., I sent Eric one message: You have until 8:00 tomorrow morning to remove your guests voluntarily.
He replied with a laughing emoji.
Then Diane texted from his phone: Grow up.
Useful. I saved everything.
