Not because they deserved an explanation. Because I wanted our final conversation to happen in a room surrounded by glass, witnesses, and carefully prepared documents.

I wore a charcoal suit I hadn’t put on in years. It still fit. Barely, but well enough. When I walked into the conference room, Trevor was standing beside the table, his hair messy, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

Melanie sat stiffly beside him, her resort clothes wrinkled, expensive makeup barely covering the anger on her face.

Trevor started immediately.

“You can’t do this,” he said. “You sold my home.”

“I sold my property.”