Daniel laughed, the kind of laugh that used to make me flinch. “Talk about it? Sweetheart, my name is on the deed. My money built this life. You brought nothing.” Vanessa smirked over her martini. His mother, Eleanor, lifted her chin like a queen watching a peasant beg.
I reached into my clutch and pulled out a slim folder. “Funny thing about names on deeds,” I said. “Do you remember three years ago, when your firm was being investigated and you begged me to put the penthouse, the Hamptons house, and the Aspen condo in my name? For protection? You signed everything over. I never signed it back.”
The color drained from his face so fast I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“That’s — that was temporary,” he stammered. “That was a formality.”
“It was a transfer of ownership,” I said gently. “I have the notarized documents. I have your handwritten letter asking me to hold them. My attorney, Margaret — you remember Margaret, she sent your Christmas card back unopened — she’s been very thorough.”
I turned to Vanessa, who had gone very still. “Sweetie, the lease on his Tribeca office? Also in my name. I co-signed when his credit tanked. I terminated it this morning. Movers arrive Monday.”
Eleanor lunged forward. “You ungrateful little —”
“And Eleanor,” I cut in, “the monthly allowance Daniel sends you? That comes from our joint account. The one I froze at four o’clock this afternoon.”
I picked up my clutch and walked to the elevator. At the doors, I turned back. Two hundred guests stood frozen, phones half-raised, champagne forgotten.
“Daniel,” I said, “you can keep the bourbon. Everything else — the view, the address, the life you said I didn’t deserve — I’ll be home by ten. Don’t be there.”
The elevator chimed. I stepped in alone, and for the first time in eight years, I exhaled.
