Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE THEY THOUGHT THEY OWNED
Claire didn’t say much during the drive home.
That bothered me more than anger would have.
Claire was never someone who complained.
She didn’t yell.
She didn’t demand apologies.
She just absorbed pain quietly.
And sometimes, that was worse.
At a red light, I looked over.
“Claire.”
She stared out the window.
“I’m okay.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t do that.”
She looked at me.
“Do what?”
“Pretend everything is okay because you don’t want to create problems.”
Her eyes softened.
“I don’t want this to destroy your relationship with your family.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“Claire, they already destroyed something.”
“What?”
I looked at her.
“My trust.”
She didn’t answer.
When we got home, I helped her inside.
Then I noticed something.
A bruise was already forming on her arm.
My jaw tightened.
I grabbed my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures.”
“Daniel…”
“Just in case.”
She looked worried.
“Do you think it will come to that?”
I wished I could say no.
But I wasn’t sure anymore.
That night, after Claire fell asleep, I sat alone in the living room.
And I thought about the house.
The Westbridge property.
The mansion my parents loved showing everyone.
The house where they hosted parties.
The house where my father proudly told people:
“This place has been in our family for years.”
Except it hadn’t.
Not anymore.
Four years earlier, my father’s business almost destroyed everything.
Debt.
Loans.
Late payments.
The bank was preparing to take the house.
My mother called me crying.
“Daniel, your father can’t lose this home.”
At the time, my construction company was finally successful.
I had money.
I had the ability to help.
So I did.
I paid off the debt.
I bought the property.
I allowed my parents to stay.
The agreement was simple.
They would pay rent.
For the first few months, they did.
Then came the excuses.
Business was slow.
Things were difficult.
Just another month.
That month became another year.
Then another.
But the strangest part wasn’t the unpaid rent.
It was the way they acted.
They stopped saying I saved the house.
They started saying they owned it.
My father told his friends he had “protected the family estate.”
My mother decorated rooms like she was preparing for generations to live there.
And Melissa?
Melissa started talking about what she would change after inheriting the house.
I let it happen.
Because I thought correcting them would hurt their pride.
But Claire once told me something I didn’t want to hear.
“Daniel, there’s a difference between helping people and allowing them to use you.”
I told her she was being too harsh.
I was wrong.
Very wrong.
I picked up my phone.
Scrolled through my contacts.
And stopped at one name.
Rachel Morgan.
Our real estate agent.
I stared at the name for almost a minute.
Then I pressed call.
She answered quickly.
“Daniel? Everything okay?”
“No.”
She immediately became serious.
“What happened?”
I looked around my quiet house.
At the life Claire and I built.
At the future we were trying to create for our daughter.
Then I said the words I should have said years ago.
“Rachel, I need you to list the Westbridge property.”
Silence.
Long silence.
“Daniel…”
“Yes?”
“Your parents live there.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
I looked at the bruise on Claire’s arm.
“Yes.”
“When do you want it listed?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Rachel took a breath.
“Okay. I’ll prepare everything.”
When I hung up, Claire was standing in the hallway.
I froze.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
She looked at me.
“You’re selling the house?”
I nodded.
“Daniel…”
“I’m not doing this because of the chair.”
She waited.
“I’m doing this because the chair showed me something.”
“What?”
I looked at her.
“That they don’t respect you.”
Claire’s eyes filled with tears.
May you like
And then she asked the question I knew she had been afraid to ask.
“What happens when they find out?”
