shouted.
“I protected my money.”
“Our money!”
“Some of it. Not the inheritance. Not the house.”
He went silent.
I could hear Vivian in the background.
“What does she mean, not the house?”
I ended the call.
For years, Daniel had bragged that he owned our home.
He entertained clients there, posed beside the fireplace for business magazines, and once corrected a contractor who called me the homeowner.
“My wife handles paperwork,” he had said. “I handle assets.”
That memory stayed with me as Mara slid a prepared notice across
