I stumbled back into the apartment, the cheap lavender scent now making me feel physically sick. What did she mean? Daniel and I had gone to the bank together. We had signed the paperwork together—or so I thought.

With trembling hands, I bypassed our bedroom and went straight to the small home office in the back.

I threw open the filing cabinet where we kept all our important documents, frantically digging past tax returns, insurance policies, and old bills until I found the thick manila folder labeled House Closing Documents.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I pulled out the deed. I flipped past the legal jargon to the signature pages at the back.
There, stamped in official notary ink, were the names of the legal owners of Unit 12B.
My name wasn’t on it. Daniel’s name was there—but right next to his, in bold, sweeping letters, was Lorraine Whitmore.

I sat down hard on the floor, the papers trembling in my hands. The down payment hadn’t come from our joint savings account like Daniel had told me. He had lied to me for three years. He had taken his mother’s money, put her name on our home, and waited for the perfect opportunity to let her move in and push me out.
Just then, the front door clicked open.
“Clara? Babe, you’re home early?” Daniel’s voice called out from the foyer, sounding completely oblivious to the wreckage of our life sitting in the next room.

I stood up, clutching the fraudulent deed tight against my chest, ready to confront the man I thought I knew.