Natalie exhaled hard. “Okay,” she said, fierce. “Now we go get your house back.”
The next morning, we drove to my neighborhood just after sunrise.
The sky was still pale, the street quiet.
My stomach churned as we pulled into the driveway. The house looked exactly the same as always—two-car garage, neat yard, the same porch light Ethan had installed last summer.
But I felt like I was approaching a crime scene.
A locksmith met us there—arranged by Judith’s office. A deputy stood nearby, polite but firm, hand resting casually near his belt like this was routine.
Because for him, it was.
For me, it was my marriage collapsing into paperwork and keys.
Ethan opened the door before we even knocked.
He looked furious—and perfectly healthy.
He wore jeans, a hoodie, hair still damp like he’d just showered. No cough. No pale face. No blanket.
His eyes snapped to the deputy, then to me.
“What is this?” he demanded.
The deputy’s voice was calm. “Sir, there’s an emergency order granting Ms. Caldwell”—he checked—“Ms. Patel exclusive occupancy of the residence pending hearing. You need to vacate.”
Ethan’s face turned red. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “This is my house too.”
“Not today,” the deputy replied.
Ethan’s eyes bored into mine. “You did this,” he hissed.
I felt my pulse remain oddly steady. “You started it,” I said quietly.
His laugh was sharp. “I started it?” He stepped closer, but the deputy shifted slightly, blocking him.
Ethan’s gaze flicked to Natalie behind me, then back. “You’re poisoning her,” he said.
Natalie didn’t react. She just stared at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Ethan turned back to me, voice dropping into a tone he used to make me doubt myself. “Claire,” he said softly, “this is all blown out of proportion. You heard part of a call. You panicked. You filed things behind my back.”
I almost smiled at the audacity.
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