His mother pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
He didn’t.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
His mother looked at Faye.
Faye swallowed.
“Roland…”
“What?”
“Your wife has money.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“Your wife has a lot of money.”
He almost laughed.
“That’s what this is about?”
“No.”
His mother shook her head.
“It’s not just money.”
“What then?”
Faye placed a folder on the coffee table.
“We found something.”
Roland stared at it.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the house.”
His expression hardened.
“You went through my house?”
“My house,” his mother corrected.
“No. Simone and I live there.”
His mother looked at him.
“Not anymore.”
Roland opened the folder.
The first page contained property records.
He read them.
Then read them again.
His face went pale.
“This can’t be right.”
Faye sat down.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
The property was held by a company.
Caldwell Family Holdings.
The beneficiary was Simone.
His mother leaned forward.
“So now you understand.”
Roland’s hands trembled.
“What does this mean?”
“It means,” Faye said quietly, “you never owned the house.”
Roland looked up.
“But I paid the mortgage.”
His mother shook her head.
“Your payments went toward an account.”
“What account?”
She looked at him.
“The family trust.”
Roland stood abruptly.
“This is impossible.”
Faye’s voice was quiet.
“It’s not.”
He flipped through the pages.
Then something caught his attention.
A signature.
His signature.
He remembered signing the document.
Three years ago.
Simone had told him it was standard property paperwork.
He had barely read it.
He had trusted her.
Or perhaps he had simply assumed that because he was the husband, everything was automatically shared.
His mother watched him.
“There’s another problem.”
Roland looked up.
“What?”
She reached into the folder and pulled out another document.
“This company owns more than the house.”
His eyes moved down the page.
Properties.
Investment accounts.
Commercial buildings.
Agricultural land.
His throat tightened.
“How much?”
His mother answered.
“We don’t know.”
Faye looked at him.
“But it’s a lot.”
Roland dropped the papers onto the table.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
His mother stared at him.
“You never asked.”
That sentence hit harder than anything else.
At noon, my father returned to my bedroom.
This time he wasn’t alone.
A woman in a dark blue suit followed him.
“Simone, this is Elena.”
I recognized her immediately.
“Elena Park?”
She nodded.
“My attorney.”
I sat up straighter.
“Why is your attorney here?”
“She has represented the family for twenty-two years.”
Elena smiled gently.
“Your father asked me to explain a few things.”
I looked at my father.
“About Roland?”
“About you.”
That distinction mattered.
Elena placed a thick binder on the bed.
“You have assets that are separate from your marriage.”
“How separate?”
“Completely.”
I stared at her.
“Can Roland claim any of them?”
“Not unless you voluntarily transferred them.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
She opened the binder.
“There is also a prenuptial agreement.”
I froze.
“We signed one.”
“Yes.”
“I remember.”
“You should read it again.”
“Why?”
“Because the version you signed contains several protections that you may not remember.”
I looked at my father.
“What protections?”
He didn’t answer.
Elena did.
“Your personal assets remain yours.”
I nodded.
“That makes sense.”
“Your inherited assets remain yours.”
I nodded again.
“And any property purchased using your trust funds remains separate property.”
My hands went cold.
“The house.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Wren.
“And if we divorce?”
Elena’s expression softened.
“Then you have options.”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t want a divorce.”
My father said nothing.
Elena didn’t either.
I opened my eyes.
“I want him to understand what he did.”
My father nodded slowly.
“Then make sure he understands.”
That afternoon, Roland called.
I watched the phone ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Simone.”
His voice sounded different.
Less angry.
More nervous.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is Wren okay?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
I looked down at my daughter.
“Not today.”
He exhaled.
“Simone, I’m sorry.”
I said nothing.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
No response.
“I shouldn’t have taken your car.”
Still nothing.
“And I shouldn’t have let my mother talk to you like that.”
I looked toward the window.
“Did you know she messaged me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know she said you deserved one peaceful night away from me?”
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