By midday I sat with my attorney reviewing documents, and we discovered something worse than arrogance because Brandon had been using the house as proof of his personal wealth in financial statements.
He hosted clients there, presented it as his own property, and built his reputation on something he did not own.
Within hours lenders started asking questions, credit lines froze, and the illusion supporting his life began to collapse.
Amber called next and said, “This is insane, you cannot do this to us.”
“No,” I replied, touching my bruised face, “what was insane was watching your husband hit me while you sat there smiling.”
She ignored that and spoke about guests and inconvenience, which told me everything about her priorities.
“You should cancel your plans and try honesty,” I said before hanging up.
That evening Brandon came to my apartment, still dressed well but already unraveling.
“You sold the house behind my back,” he said.
“I sold my house while you were at work,” I answered.
He spoke about humiliation and damage to his reputation until I stopped him.
“You hit me thirty times, and your concern is your image,” I said.
“You provoked me,” he replied, and that sentence ended whatever hope I still had.
I showed him the medical report and said, “This is not provocation, this is consequence.”
He asked what I wanted.
“I want you out by Friday, I want cooperation with every investigation, and I want you to remember what you did,” I said.
He looked around my apartment and said, “Is this how you want me to live?”
“I live in a place I own, you should try that,” I replied.
