“And the signature?” Chloe asked, her voice dropping into a sultry, manipulative purr. “When do I get my name on the deed of that gorgeous suburban property?”
“Next week,” Bruno murmured, his voice laced with a sickening tenderness he hadn’t shown me in a decade. “The notary prepared the dummy documents. I’m going to tell her it’s a refinancing application to lower our mortgage rate. She trusts me blindly when it comes to finances because she thinks she’s bad with numbers. She’ll sign it without reading a single page. Once her signature is on that deed, the house is legally transferred to a joint trust between you and me. Then, I file for divorce, she gets evicted, and we can finally start our life.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth to smother a sob. My lungs burned for oxygen, but I couldn’t breathe.
The house. This wasn’t just any house. It was the house my father had built with his own hands. When he passed away four years ago, he left it entirely to me, free and clear of any mortgage. It was my only safety net, my childhood sanctuary, the only piece of my parents I had left. When Bruno and I married, I foolishly allowed his name to be added to the title for “tax purposes,” a decision I was now realizing was the first step in his long con.
“What about the ‘cleaning lady’ angle?” Chloe asked, laughing again. “How does that fit into the court case?”
“That’s the best part,” Bruno chuckled. “I’ve been keeping a paper trail. Every week, I withdraw cash from our joint account under ‘household labor.’ I’ve been taking photos of the pristine house and logging them. If she tries to fight the divorce or claim spousal support, my lawyer will present evidence that she was completely negligent, forcing me to hire outside help, while she spent all her time hiding cash and committing financial marital fraud by pocketing the cleaning funds. She’s building the cage that’s going to trap her, and she’s doing it with a smile.”
