I slipped back home on my lunch break to check on my sick husband. I tried not to make a sound, but his voice carried down the hall—low, urgent, nothing like the weak tone he’d been putting on for me…

The clerk’s gaze stayed neutral. “Notice was filed and stamped Thursday,” she repeated. “That means any quitclaim attempt is flagged. We need confirmation and additional documentation.”

Ethan’s eyes snapped to me.

It was a look I’d never seen on him before: naked shock, followed by a rapid scramble for control.

I held his gaze and smiled softly, like we were still playing house.

“I told you I had paperwork too,” I said.

Ethan swallowed. “Claire, what is this?” he asked, voice low, sharp.

“Just boring stuff,” I replied sweetly. “You said I don’t need to understand. So I didn’t want to bore you.”

The clerk cleared her throat. “If you’re contesting or clarifying, you’ll need to speak to a supervisor,” she said.

Ethan’s jaw flexed. He leaned toward the glass, forcing a calm smile. “This is a misunderstanding,” he said. “We’re married. We’re filing a standard interest transfer into an LLC for liability protection.”

The clerk didn’t look impressed. “Then you can complete the standard review,” she said. “Step aside. Supervisor will call you.”

Ethan took a step back, folder still in the clerk’s hands.

For the first time, something was out of his control and physically not in his possession.

I watched his throat move as he swallowed.

We moved to the side seating area. Ethan stayed standing, restless, as if sitting would mean weakness.

“Why would you do that?” he hissed, leaning close. “Why would you file something behind my back?”

The irony was almost funny.

I kept my voice low and steady. “Why would you draft a quitclaim deed behind mine?” I asked.

His eyes flashed. “It’s not behind your back. It was for us.”

“For us,” I repeated, tasting the lie.

He lowered his voice, leaning in like he was trying to hypnotize me back into the version of myself he preferred. “Claire,” he said, softer, “you’re misunderstanding. Morgan Holdings is just—”

“Morgan,” I interrupted quietly.

His mouth snapped shut.

The name hung between us like a weapon.

“I heard the call,” I said calmly. “Timeline. Friday. Deed. Account. Documents.”

Ethan’s face drained slightly, but he recovered fast. “You were spying on me?” he snapped, shifting blame like it was reflex.

“I came home to check on my sick husband,” I said, voice flat. “It’s hard to spy when you’re holding soup.”

Ethan’s nostrils flared. He glanced around the room, aware of other people nearby. He forced his tone down again. “Not here,” he said.