The buyer wanted rapid possession.
Forty-eight hours after closing, assuming every legal and contractual condition was satisfied.
“Perfect.”
I returned to the party.
Brittany was showing guests the wine cellar I had paid to restore.
Brandon was discussing golf.
Nobody noticed me.
Before dessert, my phone vibrated.
Arthur.
Documents ready.
I reviewed them.
Signed electronically.
Then stood and tapped my glass.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The room quieted.
“First,” I said, “congratulations to Ethan.”
Applause.
Then I lowered my glass.
“And since so many of you have admired this beautiful house tonight, I thought you should know something.”
Brittany stopped moving.
“This property has been sold.”
Silence.
Brandon stood.
“What?”
Brittany laughed nervously.
“You can’t sell our house.”
I tilted my head.
“Your house?”
Her face changed.
She remembered.
The trust.
The purchase.
The documents she had spent years pretending did not exist.
Then my phone chimed again.
A high-priority alert.
I opened Arthur’s message.
My amusement vanished.
During the title review, his team had uncovered irregular filings tied to the property.
Documents containing representations of my authorization.
Authorizations I had never given.
Signatures I had never made.
Arthur’s instruction was simple: discuss nothing, preserve everything, call immediately.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Brittany had gone pale.
Not confused.
Pale.
“What does it say?” Brandon asked.
I ignored him.
