“Four-point-eight million.”
The color drained from his face.
“But this was our house.”
“No. You signed your interest over to me.”
His expression hardened.
Then headlights moved across the foyer walls.
Arthur turned toward the window.
Two black sedans stopped outside.
Several professionally dressed people stepped onto the driveway.
“Who are they?” he whispered.
I picked up my handbag.
And for the first time since Arthur had returned, he seemed to understand that the woman he had abandoned two years earlier was no longer the person standing in front of him. 👇
The first car door opened before Arthur could ask again.
A tall woman in a navy coat stepped onto the driveway, followed by a gray-haired man carrying a leather portfolio. From the second sedan came two younger people with rolled architectural plans beneath their arms.
Arthur wiped his face with the heel of his hand and looked from them to me.
“Evelyn, who are they?”
“The new owners’ representatives,” I said. “And my project team.”
His expression tightened.
“My what?”
“Not yours.”
The tall woman reached the porch and smiled at me. “Mrs. Bennett, congratulations again. We have the preservation agreement ready for final review.”
Arthur stared at her.
“Preservation agreement?”
I stepped aside so the group could enter.
The buyer was not a developer planning to gut the house into luxury apartments. It was the Harcourt Foundation, a private preservation organization that restored historically significant homes and opened some of them for public programs, scholarships, and design residencies. Their $4.8 million cash offer had been the highest bid, but that was not why I accepted it.
They had promised not to destroy what I had spent two years saving.
The gray-haired man introduced himself as Peter Lang, the foundation’s director. His gaze flicked toward Arthur’s duffel bag and then politely away.
“We can come back if this is a bad time,” he said.
“No,” I answered. “The timing is fine.”
Arthur gave a broken laugh.
