David laughed. Actually laughed. ‘My name, obviously. Everything here is mine. You were just the decoration, sweetheart.’ Brittany smirked and twirled a strand of hair. I nodded slowly, walked to the study, and returned with a slim leather folder. ‘Funny thing about decorations,’ I said. ‘Sometimes they hold the whole room up.’ I opened the folder. Inside were the original purchase documents from 2013 — the year his hedge fund nearly collapsed and he begged my father for a bridge loan. My father, a retired real estate attorney, agreed on one condition: the Greenwich house would be purchased through a family trust in MY name, with David listed only as a resident. David had signed it drunk on relief, never reading the fine print. For twelve years I let him brag about ‘his’ mansion at dinner parties. I let him believe it. David’s face drained of color. ‘That’s… that’s not possible.’ I slid the second document across the foyer table — a notarized eviction notice, dated that morning, prepared by my father’s old firm. ‘You have thirty days to vacate MY property. Brittany has until sunset.’ Brittany’s giggle died in her throat. ‘David, what is she talking about?’ He couldn’t answer. He was staring at his own signature. Then I pulled out the third document — the forensic accountant’s report showing the $400,000 he’d quietly moved into a joint account with Brittany over the last eight months. ‘Marital assets,’ I said gently. ‘My attorney will be reaching out about those, too.’ David sank onto the bottom stair. Brittany was already halfway out the door, dragging her Louis Vuitton behind her like a dying animal. I picked up my chamomile tea, took a long, warm sip, and walked past my husband of twelve years without looking down. ‘Oh, and David?’ I said at the doorway. ‘The gardening cardigan stays. It’s the only thing in this house that was ever really mine.’
