Chapter 7 - THE HOUSE THAT WAS NEVER REALLY OURS|
Grant arrived home the following evening carrying a leather folder.
He placed it on the kitchen counter.
“We need to discuss the house.”
I looked up from my laptop.
“What about it?”
“The mortgage.”
“What about the mortgage?”
He opened the folder and removed several documents.
“There's a refinancing proposal. The bank needs your signature.”
I didn't touch the papers.
“Why?”
“To restructure the debt.”
“Which debt?”
He sighed.
“Claire, I don't have time for this.”
“Then you don't have time to ask me to sign something I haven't read.”
He slid the folder closer.
“It's routine.”
“Nothing about your financial decisions has been routine lately.”
His expression tightened.
“Are you really going to turn every conversation into an interrogation?”
“Only the ones involving my signature.”
He closed the folder.
“You've changed.”
“Yes.”
“You used to trust me.”
“I used to have reasons to.”
For a moment, something almost human crossed his face.
Regret, perhaps.
But it disappeared quickly.
“Look, I know you're hurt. I understand that. But we have a lot invested in this life.”
I looked around the kitchen.
The marble countertops.
The custom cabinets.
The expensive lighting.
The garden visible through the glass doors.
I had chosen most of it. I had negotiated the purchase. I had paid the initial deposit using money inherited from my grandmother.
Grant liked to tell people he had bought the house for me.
The truth was that I had purchased it before our marriage, then added him to the title years later because I believed marriage meant sharing everything.
Now Daniel had discovered that Grant had used the property as collateral for a business credit facility.
Without telling me.
“Did you borrow against the house?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“It's a standard company guarantee.”
“Did I authorize it?”
“Your name is on the documents.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He looked irritated.
“You signed the paperwork.”
“I signed the original mortgage papers. I did not sign a new guarantee.”
“Claire, don't start accusing me of fraud.”
“Then show me the authorization.”
He didn't move.
I closed my laptop.
“You can't.”
His jaw flexed.
“You're listening to Daniel too much.”
“Daniel didn't create the documents.”
Grant stepped closer.
“You're going to lose more than you realize if you keep going.”
I met his eyes.
“Is that a threat?”
“It's a warning.”
I stood.
“Then here's one for you. Don't attempt to sell, refinance, transfer, or borrow against anything connected to my ownership without proper authorization.”
He laughed.
“You think you can freeze me out of my own company?”
“It's not your company alone.”
He picked up the folder.
“You'll regret this.”
He walked toward the door.
His phone rang before he reached it.
Savannah.
He rejected the call.
Then it rang again.
This time, he answered.
“What?”
I couldn't hear her response, but I saw his face change.
“What do you mean the bank called?”
He stopped moving.
“Who gave them the documents?”
A pause.
Then he looked at me.
I understood.
May you like
Someone else had started asking questions.
And Grant was running out of places to hide.
