“You signed,” she says, pointing at the file. “You agreed to him being here.”
You nod.
“I did,” you say. “For him. Not for you.”
Then you lift the second page. “And you committed fraud to be part of this. Congratulations.”
Her eyes flash.
“Prove it,” she spits.
You glance at the manager’s business card tucked in your folder.
Then you look back at her, steady.
“I don’t need to prove it to you,” you say. “I only need to prove it to the people who prosecute it.”
Ethan steps down onto the porch, hands up like he’s calming an animal.
“Okay,” he says, voice softer. “Let’s not do something we’ll regret.”
You almost laugh.
Because he said the same line when he thought you were trapped.
Now he’s using it because he’s the one cornered.
“I regret one thing,” you say.
“Trusting you.”
Then you gesture to the locksmith. “Change it.”
The locksmith approaches the door.
Ethan blocks him.
One of the officers steps forward and says, calm, “Sir, you need to move.”
Ethan’s face flushes.
He looks at you, then at Maya, then back at you, and you can see him calculating which woman he can manipulate faster.
But the math doesn’t work anymore.
He steps aside.
The sound of drilling fills the porch, harsh and final.
Maya’s breathing quickens.
The new lock comes off like a lie being pulled out by force.
When the door opens, the house smells like fresh cardboard and betrayal.
You step inside first, because you’re done being invited into your own life.
You walk straight to the kitchen drawer where you once imagined storing holiday napkins.
It’s empty.
And somehow the emptiness feels like justice, because it means they haven’t had time to make themselves comfortable.
Ethan follows you in, voice urgent.
“Listen,” he says. “We can negotiate. I’ll sign whatever. I’ll give you the house, okay? Just… don’t call anyone.”
You turn slowly.
“Give me the house?” you repeat.
Your laugh is short. “You can’t give what you don’t own.”
Maya steps in behind him, eyes wet now.
Not with guilt, with fear.
“You’re going to ruin my life,” she whispers.
You look at her belly, then at her face.
“You ruined mine first,” you reply.
Then you soften your voice just enough to make it sting. “And you did it smiling.”
The officers ask if you want them removed immediately.
You nod once.
Ethan’s shoulders slump as if he’s finally feeling the weight of consequences.
Maya starts crying, loudly, theatrically, hoping the world will mistake volume for innocence.
But nobody moves to comfort her.
The movers load the boxes back onto the truck, faster now, grateful to be uninvolved.
Ethan tries to speak to you one last time at the porch steps.
“This isn’t who you are,” he says, eyes pleading. “You’re not cruel.”
You stare at him and answer with a calm that terrifies him.
“No,” you say. “Cruel is stealing someone’s future and calling it love.”
Then you add, “I’m just… awake.”
