Chapter 2: The House Was Never His
Marcus reached for the envelope before I could open it.
“Give me that.””
I pulled it against my chest.
“Interesting. Five minutes ago, you were telling me you loved me. Now you're trying to steal my mail?””
“Lauren, you don't understand what this is.””
“Then explain it.””
He looked at Mr. Whitmore.
The older man adjusted his glasses and closed his briefcase with a decisive snap.
“Mr. Reed, I believe I've explained it several times.””
Marcus's jaw clenched.
“Not here. We can discuss this privately.””
“Why?”” I asked.
“Afraid your girlfriend might learn something?””
Brianna, who had been standing near the pool steps, lowered her towel.
“Girlfriend?”” she repeated.
“Marcus, you told me you were practically separated.””
Marcus shot her a furious look.
“Not now, Brianna.””
She let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, suddenly you don't want me talking?””
I could almost admire the timing.
The woman who had been kissing my boyfriend thirty seconds earlier was now discovering that she had been lied to, too.
But I wasn't interested in comforting her.
Not yet.
I opened the envelope.
Inside were several official-looking documents, a property management agreement, and a letter bearing the letterhead of Whitmore Holdings.
I recognized the company.
It was the firm that managed the mansion, the guesthouse, and several commercial properties throughout Atlanta.
Three years earlier, when Marcus and I had first moved into the house, he had told me his business contacts had arranged an unusually favorable lease.
He had called it a perk of being a successful real estate consultant.
I had never questioned it.
I had paid the utility bills, bought furniture, and spent countless weekends choosing curtains and planting flowers along the driveway. Marcus had always referred to the mansion as his house.
Our house, he would say when he wanted to sound romantic.
His house, when he wanted to remind me who supposedly made the important decisions.
Now I stared at the document in my hands.
The property agreement had been signed by Marcus Reed as an authorized occupant.
Not an owner.
Not a landlord.
An occupant.
Mr. Whitmore spoke before I could ask the obvious question.
“Miss Bennett, the property belongs to Whitmore Holdings. Your occupancy arrangement was established through a private agreement with our managing director.””
I looked at Marcus.
“You told me you owned this house.””
He rubbed both hands over his wet face.
“I was going to explain.””
“When? After the next mortgage payment you never made?””
“That's not fair.””
“What's not fair is that I spent three years believing we were building a life together while you let me pay for things you couldn't afford.””
His expression hardened.
“I never forced you to pay for anything.””
“No. You just stood in the kitchen every month and complained about cash flow until I offered to help.””
Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat.
“If I may, there's another matter.””
Marcus stepped between us.
“That's enough.””
The older man didn't move.
“Your personal circumstances are irrelevant to the paperwork. The company has terminated your authorization to occupy the property, effective immediately.””
Brianna stared at him.
“Wait. You're kicking him out?””
Mr. Whitmore glanced at her.
“The company is ending Mr. Reed's occupancy agreement. The owner has also requested that the property's access credentials be reviewed.””
Marcus's face flushed red.
“This is ridiculous. I have an agreement.””
“Which has been terminated under the clause you signed.””
“You can't do this.””
“I'm afraid I can.””
I looked down at the document again.
The final page included a list of items belonging to the property owner: the outdoor furniture, several antique cabinets, the chandelier in the entrance hall, and the paintings in the living room.
I remembered Marcus bragging about those paintings at dinner parties.
He would stand with a glass of bourbon in his hand and explain how he had invested in original artwork.
I had believed him.
Now I wondered whether anything about the man I loved had ever been real.
“Why now?”” I asked Mr. Whitmore.
He studied me for a moment.
“Because the company received a report regarding unauthorized use of the property, and the managing director decided to review the arrangement.””
Marcus's head snapped toward him.
“What report?””
Mr. Whitmore opened his briefcase again.
“An incident report was submitted this morning.””
My heart gave a strange little thump.
This morning.
Before I had walked into the backyard.
Before the groceries had hit the patio.
Someone had known something was wrong before I did.
I looked at Marcus.
“Who filed the report?””
He said nothing.
Mr. Whitmore handed me a second sheet.
It contained a list of expenses that had been charged to a company account over the past six months.
Pool maintenance.
Landscaping.
Housekeeping.
Repairs.
And several purchases from luxury retailers.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
*Please confirm whether these expenses were authorized by the property owner.*
I frowned.
“I don't understand. These are household expenses.””
“Some are,” Mr. Whitmore replied.
“Others are not.””
He pointed to three transactions.
A jewelry store.
A luxury hotel.
A private car service.
The total was more than eighteen thousand dollars.
My mouth went dry.
“Marcus?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“It's business.””
“Business?””
“Client entertainment. Gifts. Networking. You know how my work operates.””
“I know you told me you were struggling to cover your credit card bill last month.””
He looked away.
Mr. Whitmore spoke quietly.
“The transactions were charged to a company account intended exclusively for property maintenance and authorized management expenses. We have reason to believe some charges were made without approval.””
Brianna folded her arms.
“Marcus, you said you paid for the hotel yourself.””
He turned toward her.
“Will you please stop talking?””
“No. You told me the company was paying you a bonus. You said you were buying me something special because your deal had closed.””
I looked at the jewelry store receipt.
A purchase of $7,800.
My birthday was six weeks earlier.
Marcus had given me a silver necklace that cost less than two hundred dollars. He had kissed me while I opened the box and told me that what mattered was the thought behind the gift.
I remembered thanking him.
I remembered telling him he didn't have to spend much money to make me happy.
And I remembered him smiling as if I had said exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Was the jewelry for her?”” I asked.
Marcus's silence answered me.
Brianna's face changed.
“You said that necklace was for your mother.””
“Brianna, stop.””
“You told me your mother was sick and you wanted to make her happy!””
Mr. Whitmore closed the briefcase.
“Mr. Reed, I strongly advise you to stop making this worse.””
Marcus pointed at the documents.
“This is a misunderstanding. Lauren and I have been together for years. She knows how our finances work.””
I stared at him.
“No, Marcus. I know how my finances work. That's the problem.””
His eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?””
“It means I need to see every account connected to my name.””
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Don't be dramatic.””
“Every account, Marcus.””
“Lauren, you're upset. You're not thinking clearly.””
There it was.
The old trick.
When I asked a question he couldn't answer, he questioned my ability to ask it.
Mr. Whitmore seemed to notice the change in my expression.
“Miss Bennett, if your personal funds were used to support any unauthorized transactions, you should speak with your bank and an independent attorney. Our company cannot advise you on that matter.””
I nodded slowly.
“Thank you.””
Marcus took a step toward me.
“Don't let this man turn you against me.””
I almost laughed.
“You managed that all by yourself.””
Then I turned toward the house.
I needed my laptop. My phone charger. The folder containing my tax returns and bank statements.
Most importantly, I needed to find out how much of my life had been tied to Marcus's lies.
He followed me through the patio doors.
“Lauren, wait.””
I kept walking.
“Please. Just give me ten minutes.””
“You've had three years.””
“Three years that meant something!””
I stopped in the hallway.
For the first time, his voice cracked.
“I loved you. I still love you.””
I looked at the man who had slept beside me, eaten at my table, and promised to grow old with me.
Then I asked him the question I had been avoiding since the moment I saw him in the pool.
“Did you ever intend to marry me?””
His eyes flickered.
It was tiny. Barely a second.
But I saw it.
He glanced toward the staircase before answering.
“Of course I did.””
“Then why have you spent three years telling everyone we're basically engaged, but never actually proposing?””
“Because I wanted to do it properly.””
“Properly?””
“I had plans.””
“What plans?””
He swallowed.
“I was waiting for the right time.””
I looked at the expensive chandelier above us.
The house was beautiful. The floors gleamed. The walls were lined with carefully selected artwork. Every room looked like the kind of home people posted online to convince strangers that their lives were perfect.
But standing there, I felt as if I had been living inside a stage set.
I walked upstairs.
Marcus followed me into the bedroom, where the curtains were still drawn against the afternoon sun.
My laptop sat on the desk beside a framed photograph of us at a charity gala.
He picked up the photograph.
“Look at this,” he said.
“We were happy.””
I took it from him and placed it facedown.
“We looked happy.””
He flinched.
I opened my laptop and began changing passwords.
Email.
Banking.
Cloud storage.
Shopping accounts.
Anything he might know.
Marcus watched me with growing panic.
“What are you doing?””
“Making sure you can't access my life.””
“I've never stolen from you.””
I paused.
Then I turned toward him.
“Are you absolutely certain you want to make that claim?””
He didn't answer.
A notification appeared on my screen.
A new email from my bank.
*Unusual activity detected on your joint account. Please review recent transactions.*
I clicked it.
My fingers went cold.
Three withdrawals had been made that morning.
Each one was for $9,500.
The recipient account was unfamiliar.
The total was $28,500.
I turned the screen toward Marcus.
“What is this?””
He stared at the numbers.
For the first time that afternoon, he looked genuinely speechless.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Lauren, don't call the bank.””
I slowly closed my laptop.
“Why?””
His eyes darted toward the bedroom door.
“Because if you call them, they'll freeze everything.””
“Everything that belongs to me?””
He didn't respond.
I stepped closer.
“Marcus, what did you do?””
His phone began ringing.
He glanced at the screen and immediately declined the call.
A second later, a text appeared.
I couldn't see the entire message, but I saw the first line.
*Did she find out about the transfer?*
Marcus snatched the phone off the desk.
Too late.
I had already read it.
I looked at him.
“Who is asking whether I've found out?””
He gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles whitened.
May you like
Then he whispered, “Lauren, you need to listen to me very carefully.””
And for the first time, I realized the woman in the pool might not have been the worst thing he had done.
