I had chosen survival. And survival required a brutal, unyielding shock to the system.

The phone on my bistro table buzzed.

“The trap’s been sprung, Theresa,” Iris said, her voice crackling over the international line. “They’ve been served.”

The documents the deputy handed Austin weren’t a standard eviction notice. They were a legal masterstroke. For eleven years, Austin and Chloe had lived in a beautiful three-bedroom condo overlooking Biscayne Bay.

They called it their home. They’d renovated the kitchen without asking, choosing Italian marble countertops.

But the condo had never belonged to them. Ernest and I had bought it in cash under an LLC when they were newly married and their credit was destroyed.