“We used my salary too,” I argued, my hands clenching into fists. “Most of it was my money.”

“It doesn’t matter whose salary was higher,” Rylan said, his voice dripping with condescending patience.

“By law, it’s marital property once those funds are mixed into the home’s upkeep.”

“You made it a marital residence in the eyes of the State.”

“So, no,” he said softly. “I’m not packing my bags.”

“And neither is my mother.”

Solene walked past the kitchen doorway, carrying a ceramic vase I had never seen before.

She set it on the hallway credenza, right next to my grandmother’s antique silver tray.

“It’s a beautiful house, Calla,” Solene called out, her voice carrying a sharp, artificial sweetness.

“It just needs a little modernization.”

I felt a hot surge of panic rise in my chest.

“Get out,” I whispered.

“You can’t force us out,” Rylan said, his tone perfectly reasonable, as if he were explaining a billing error to a customer.

“If you try to change the locks, my lawyer will file an emergency injunction.”

“It won’t look good for you when we go to mediation.”