And while I lay in a hospital bed, exhausted and shaken, trying to process everything that had happened—
they were drinking cocktails, posting beach photos, shopping in boutiques, smiling as if I didn’t exist.
The next morning, I got a notification.
Fifty-four thousand dollars spent in Miami.
I didn’t feel anger.
I felt something colder. Sharper.
Because there was one thing they never understood.
The house wasn’t Ethan’s.
It never had been.
I bought it long before I met him—back when I believed security mattered more than love.
