“So,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, slicing through their arrogance. “The grand strategy is to forcefully eject me from the premises less than twenty-four hours after I supposedly save you from financial ruin? While your mistress wears my clothes?”
Jason’s hazel eyes flared with sudden, defensive anger. “You didn’t save me! You merely paid what you owed for being a dead weight. I carried the emotional labor of this marriage for three years. You owed me this bailout. Now, my parents are moving into the guest wing today. Brooke is staying here. This house is finally going to have a real family in it.”
I let my gaze slowly sweep the perimeter of the kitchen. “First of all, Brooke,” I said, my voice dropping to a sub-zero temperature, “take off my robe. Now. Or I will physically peel it off you.”
Brooke’s smirk faltered, her grip on the mug tightening as she instinctively took a half-step back.
I turned back to Jason. “Second, you seem to labor under the profound delusion that this house is a marital asset. You seem to have forgotten the document you signed in that Georgetown steakhouse four years ago. The one you called ‘paranoid paperwork.’”
Jason swallowed hard. “The prenup doesn’t supersede my rights to the primary residence. My name is on the utility bills. You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t bluff, Jason,” I stated simply. “And I don’t need to argue with you. I just need you to listen.”
I didn’t reach for a file. I didn’t scramble for papers. I simply looked up at the sleek, black cylinder resting on the kitchen counter.
“Alexa,” I said, my voice perfectly clear, echoing off the marble.
Jason frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Alexa,” I repeated. “Play the audio file labeled ‘Midnight’ to the Kitchen Group.”
The blue light ring spun to life. And then, the true nightmare began.
