He just held it, tapping the glass edge against his palm.

“I want both of you out of here,” I said, my voice trembling with rage.

“Pack your bags.”

“Get out of my house.”

Rylan didn’t look angry.

He looked amused.

He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, his posture entirely relaxed.

“Your house?” he asked.

He unlocked his phone, his thumb sliding across the glass.

He tapped the screen a few times, then held it out toward me.

“You might want to read this, Calla,” he said, his voice flat and steady.

I didn’t take the phone, so he laid it face-up on the granite countertop.

It was an email from a law firm downtown, the subject line reading *Property Valuation and Transmutation Query*.

“What is this?” I asked, refusing to look down at the text again.

“It’s a preliminary assessment,” Rylan said.

He took a slow step toward me, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the hardwood.

“You seem to have forgotten a few things about how we’ve lived here the last three years.”