That night, I slept in the guest room. I didn’t pack. I didn’t panic.
Instead, I made three calls.
My attorney, Naomi Park. My CFO, because my compensation came with strict confidentiality clauses.
And my bank—to lock everything down.
By morning, Naomi had already uncovered the public records.
Trent was right about one thing: his name was on the deed.
What he didn’t know was who had paid for the house.
And he definitely didn’t know where the down payment really came from.
At 8:12 a.m., Trent pounded on the guest room door.
“I said tomorrow,” he barked. “I’m serious.”
I opened it halfway and met his eyes. “I heard you,” I said evenly. “And you’ll hear from me soon.”
He laughed. “With what authority? You don’t have any.”
I almost smiled.
Because I did have authority.
I just hadn’t needed to use it—until now.
Three days later, I was in a hotel suite across town, signing documents with Naomi, when my phone lit up with Trent’s name.
His voice was nothing like before.
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