She had just hoped I’d panic before the paperwork showed up.

I smiled for the first time.

“You have two minutes,” I told her, “to grab your purse and walk out on your own.”

She laughed in my face.

That was her mistake.

Because one minute and forty-three seconds later, Lorraine Whitmore was standing in the hallway without her robe, shouting at security, and my husband still had no idea the real disaster hadn’t even begun.

That came next.

When I opened Daniel’s file drawer.

And found out what he had really done…

Part 2

Getting Lorraine out was almost disappointingly simple.

The building manager, a meticulous woman named Anita who had congratulated me when I closed on the unit, arrived with two security guards, and one look at the ownership records on her tablet settled everything. Lorraine tried every tactic—indignation, tears, outrage, the usual “I’m his mother” line people like her rely on when legality starts slipping away. Anita answered with a sentence I still remember whenever I need reassurance.

“Mrs. Whitmore, your relationship to a man who does not own this property is irrelevant.”

Perfect.

They escorted her out while she shouted that Daniel would “fix this” and that I had “no idea what papers had already been signed.”

That line stuck with me.

No idea what papers had already been signed.

Interesting.