Brent walked out through the side garage door, bypassing the front porch entirely.

He threw his bag into the trunk of the waiting vehicle and got into the back seat without looking back.

The SUV rolled down the damp driveway and disappeared past the wrought-iron security gates.

The rain began to fall faster, heavy cold drops splattering onto the stone steps and my bare ankles.

I huddled in the corner of the porch, trying to shield Ivy from the damp wind.

My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers.

It was a text from my sister, Molly: *On my way. Just passed the highway exit. Hang on.*

I didn’t reply to her.

Instead, I scrolled through my contacts and dialed a different number.

The call rang twice before a professional, calm voice answered.

“Jennifer Vance,” my attorney said.

“Jennifer, it’s Tessa,” I said, my teeth chattering.

“Tessa? You sound cold. Is everything okay with the baby?”

“Brent locked me out of the house,” I said, staring at the locked mahogany door. “He wants me to sign the deed over to his family trust.”

There was a sharp, angry intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“Do not sign anything,” Jennifer said. “The Redwood Crest property is solely in your name. You bought it before the marriage.”

“I know,” I said. “And I don’t want it anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Jennifer asked.

“I want to sell it,” I said, watching the rain pool on the driveway. “Sell it immediately. No negotiations with Brent.”

“Tessa, a house of that size in Boulder takes months to list and close,” Jennifer said gently. “You need to find a safe place to stay first.”

“I don’t care about the market,” I said. “Find a buyer. Anyone.”

“Hold on,” Jennifer said.

I heard the sound of computer keys tapping rapidly in the background.