“That’s not fair, Marisol,” Dorian frowned.

“You knew who owned the house,” Marisol said, looking directly into his eyes.

He said nothing.

And that heavy silence was the final answer she had spent five years desperately trying to avoid hearing.

She walked upstairs and pulled a medium suitcase from the closet.

Dorian followed a moment later.

“What are you doing?” “Packing enough for several nights.” “Where are you going?” “A hotel downtown.” He leaned against the doorway and shook his head.

“You’re leaving your own house because my mother touched the thermostat?”