And then I saw her.
A woman in a sleek black coat, hair perfectly styled, standing by the entrance like she belonged there. She wasn’t holding a folder like everyone else. She was holding a phone, and her posture was pure entitlement.
When her gaze met Ethan’s, she smiled.
Not friendly.
Victorious.
Ethan’s shoulders tightened. His hand covered the phone’s microphone for a second as he hissed to me, “Don’t—”
But it was too late.
Because she walked toward us.
Confident steps. No hesitation.
Her eyes slid over me like I was a piece of furniture she planned to replace.
Then she stopped in front of Ethan and said, too loud for the building, “So? Did you do it?”
The humiliation burned hot, but underneath it was something colder.
Confirmation.
This wasn’t paranoia. This wasn’t misunderstanding. This wasn’t “liability protection.”
This was a plan between two people who thought I was an obstacle, not a spouse.
Ethan’s face went rigid. “Not here,” he muttered.
The woman’s eyes flicked to me, then back to him. “Why not?” she asked, voice sharp. “She’s already here.”
Already.
Like I was late to my own betrayal.
I stepped forward, steady. “Hi,” I said, voice calm. “I’m Claire.”
The woman blinked, annoyed. “I know who you are,” she said.
Of course she did.
Ethan flinched slightly, as if he wished he could vanish.
I looked at him. “So this is Morgan,” I said quietly. “The one you moved money for. The one you planned to give my home to.”
Ethan’s jaw flexed. “Claire, stop.”
Morgan smiled like I’d made her day. “He was giving you the house,” she said, voice dripping with condescension. “He was transferring his interest. You should be grateful.”
I stared at her, then at Ethan.
“Is that what you told her?” I asked. “That I’d be grateful?”
Ethan’s eyes darted around, calculating the audience. People in line were watching now. The clerk behind the glass was watching. A security guard near the entrance shifted his stance.
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