He Gave Her My Home So I Took Back My Life Chapter 02
I stared at Mateo’s message for a few seconds, then hit call.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Nora?”
His voice was exactly as I remembered—steady, not rushing to ask questions, not offering cheap comfort.
“I need help,” I said.
“All right.”
Mateo paused for a beat.
“I have a top divorce attorney, a criminal lawyer, and a crisis PR team on standby. If you say the word, they can start tonight.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“A criminal lawyer?”
“Opening your safe without permission and taking an heirloom isn’t just a domestic issue,” he said. “Especially since I don’t know what else they might do to force you out.”
Faint applause drifted up from downstairs.
The foundation dinner was officially starting.
Mateo asked, “Nora, do you really want to keep living like this? Being driven out of your own house over and over, watching someone else take your place, and then helping them keep up appearances?”
My heart was pounding, so hard I felt it in my ribs, as if one word could shatter the last ten years of my life.
But still, I said, “No.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
“Send the lawyer to me,” I said, closing my eyes. “Tonight.”
I’d agreed so quickly it felt reckless, even to me.
But when I hung up the phone, I felt no regret.
When I got to the Perry Lane Hotel, the front desk didn’t even ask for my name. They simply handed me a key card.
A navy evening dress still hung in the suite’s closet.
I had left it there during the last Legacy Weekend, when I’d been pushed out at the last minute. The hotel had cleaned and pressed it, as if waiting for my next exile.
It seemed I was a regular.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
The divorce attorney Mateo had sent stood in the hallway. She wasted no time on pleasantries, opening her laptop and laying out asset lists and emergency filings across the coffee table.
“Hale Manor is held in your premarital trust. The Ashford family and the foundation have had rent-free use of it, but that permission can be revoked at any time.”
I lowered my eyes to the wedding ring on my finger.
Ten years ago, when Graham had slid it on, he’d promised that no matter what, he would always respect me.
I took it off and set it on the table.
The ring made a soft clink as it hit the glass.
“Start the divorce.”
The lawyer looked up at me.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I pushed the property papers toward her. “And I want my house back.”
“The foundation may push back, especially with the annual board meeting coming up. They’ve always treated the estate as one of their core event venues.”
“I’ll speak to Alma Whitcomb myself.”
The lawyer nodded and forwarded the filing documents to her assistant.
After she left, I sat alone on the sofa, staring at the ring.
Ten years ago, the Ashford family’s old house had fallen into disrepair, and the bank had refused to approve another loan. It was the Hale family trust that had paid for the restoration.
The first time I met Graham was beneath the colonnade of that house.
He pulled out a chair for me, listened intently as I talked about historic preservation, and when he walked me out, he said, “Nora, I will never take what you do for granted.”
I later learned his “forever” lasted only until the next time he needed something from me.
A news alert popped up on my phone.
In the photo, Graham stood in the center of my ancestral home’s grand hall, Vivian on his arm. The caption praised him as “the devoted family guardian supporting his grieving widowed sister-in-law and nephew.”
The ballroom was filled with white roses.
They were Vivian’s favorite.
The flowers Graham gave me were always whatever the housekeeper clipped from the garden. Once, there was still mud on the stems, and he had asked, “You don’t care about things like that, do you?”
At the time, I had actually smiled and taken them.
Now, the memory was just humiliating.
My screen lit up again.
It was Mateo.
*You said in college that you wanted to start a restoration fund for historic homes. If you still want that after the divorce, I can help you prepare the first project assessment.*
I stared at the words, a knot forming in my throat.
I had only mentioned that dream once, during a college seminar.
When Graham heard about it later, he’d laughed and called it unrealistic. Savannah, he’d said, had no shortage of people setting money on fire for nostalgia.
Even I had almost forgotten.
But Mateo remembered.
Slowly, I typed back.
*Thank you for remembering.*
I set down my phone and began unpacking the luggage the housekeeper had sent over.
The clothes were there. The documents. The toiletries.
But the jewelry box from my mother—the one I had specifically requested—was missing.
I called Graham immediately.
When he picked up, I could hear Vivian laughing with guests in the background.
“Where is my jewelry box?”
His tone was sharp with impatience. “Do you have to ask about that right now? The dinner isn’t even over.”
“Why wasn’t the pearl necklace sent over?”
“Oh, that.” He sounded dismissive. “Vivian thought it suited her tonight, so she borrowed it.”
“That necklace belonged to my mother.”
“I know. Nora, don’t make a big deal out of it. She’ll give it back after the photos.”
I hung up, grabbed my coat, and rushed out the door.
My hands shook the entire elevator ride down.
Not from fear.
But because even now, Graham still believed I would just keep taking it.
Outside the hotel, I yanked open the back door of a cab.
The driver looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”
I pictured the news photo of Vivian in my seat, wearing my mother’s pearls.
“Hale Manor.”
This time, I wasn’t going back to help them keep up the act.
I was going to take back what was mine.