“Sign these,” he said.
I examined them.
A property transfer agreement.
Every page aimed to put the house in Margaret’s name.
I gave a faint smile.
“You’re in a hurry.”
Daniel leaned closer.
“You have three days. Why waste them?”
Behind him, Margaret studied her nails.
“I’ve already chosen curtains,” she said. “Jennifer likes blue.”
I nearly laughed.
Instead, I signed a single page.
Daniel blinked.
“You’re cooperating?”
“I don’t have much choice.”
His grin grew wider.
“That’s my girl.”
They took the documents and left.
As soon as the door shut, my lawyer came through another entrance.
Evelyn Shaw set a thick black folder on my table.
“You signed nothing legally binding,” she said.
“I know.”
She nodded.
“Your father confirmed everything.”
I opened the folder.
It contained property records, corporate documents, bank statements, and a sealed trust agreement.
Daniel never knew my mother hadn’t simply bequeathed me the house.
She had placed it in a family trust.
I was its beneficiary.
My father was the trustee.
Daniel had never held any ownership rights.
And there was more.
Three years ago, Daniel’s company had nearly failed. Without my knowledge, he had forged my signature to guarantee a business loan.
I discovered the fraud.
Quietly, I paid off the debt.
Then I started collecting evidence.
Emails.
Bank transfers.
Daniel and Jennifer’s messages.
Copies of forged paperwork.
Even recordings of Daniel planning to portray me as incompetent if I opposed the divorce.
Evelyn studied me.
“You could destroy him.”
“No,” I replied.
“I want him to destroy himself.”
Meanwhile, Daniel grew careless.
He shared photos with Jennifer online.
He publicly announced their engagement.
Margaret invited relatives to tour my house.
Then she booked movers.
On the second afternoon, Daniel appeared at the hospital with flowers.
He set them beside my bed.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Jennifer and I are having dinner at your house.”
I met his gaze.
“You mean our house?”
He smiled.
“No. Mine.”
Just then, my phone vibrated.
A text from my father.
Everything is ready.
I replied with three words.
Wait until tomorrow.
Daniel watched closely.
“Who are you texting?”
I smiled.
“My father.”
His expression shifted.
Only briefly.
But I noticed.
Because Daniel believed my father had died.
“Your father?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His confidence evaporated.
I settled back against my pillow.
“You should have asked more questions before marrying me.”
The following morning, Margaret showed up at my house with six movers.
Jennifer accompanied her.
Daniel waited in the driveway, smiling like a man certain of victory.
Then three black cars pulled up behind them.
My father emerged first.
Seventy years old, silver-haired, completely composed, with two attorneys following him.