Chapter 2 - The House on the Market
The divorce attorney’s office smelled of leather, expensive coffee, and legal binding paper. Jacqueline Foster was a woman in her late fifties with sharp silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a reputation for tearing opposing spouses to shreds without ever raising her voice.
“Well, Mrs. Sloan,” Jacqueline said, lowering my property deed onto her mahogany desk. “The good news is airtight. You purchased this home eighteen months prior to your marriage. Your personal funds covered the twenty percent down payment, and while Mr. Sloan’s name appears on a refinanced utility rider for a deck extension, his name is nowhere on the title, the mortgage note, or the original closing statement. Under North Carolina law, this house is your sole and separate property.”
“And the equity?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair.
“He can sue for reimbursement of minor capital improvements—like the deck or painting—if he can produce receipts proving he paid for them out of his independent account,” Jacqueline smiled faintly. “Which, given that our preliminary asset trace shows he’s been funneling half his commission checks into a secret PayPal account linked to his mother’s brokerage, is highly unlikely to hold up in court.”
“What about the house sale?”
“Celia Monroe called me twenty minutes ago,” Jacqueline replied, sliding a folder across the desk. “She has an all-cash buyer looking for a turnkey property in your neighborhood. They’re willing to waive inspection for a quick close. We list it Monday morning at 8:00 AM. Once the listing goes live on the MLS, Mr. Sloan has zero legal right to block showings, provided we give him twenty-four hours' notice under standard tenant-at-will grace periods for marital residences.”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for three years.
“Do it,” I said.
By Monday afternoon, a gleaming silver FOR SALE BY OWNER / EXCLUSIVE LISTING sign stood planted in the pristine green grass of our front lawn.
Derek had spent the weekend at his parents' house in Chapel Hill. But when the real estate photographer arrived at 9:00 AM on Monday morning to shoot drone footage of the roof and interior walk-throughs, Derek pulled into the driveway in his SUV, hopping out with a face twisted in absolute fury.
He marched up the steps while Celia Monroe and I were standing on the porch reviewing lighting angles.
“What the hell is this?!” Derek shouted, pointing at the sign by the flower bed.
Celia, who had dealt with hostile divorcing husbands for twenty-five years, didn't even blink. She adjusted her clipboard and looked at Derek with professional boredom. “Good morning, Mr. Sloan. We’re listing the property. Please ensure your personal items in the master closet are cleared out by Wednesday afternoon so staging can take place.”
“You can’t list my house!” Derek roared, jabbing a finger toward his chest.
“It’s not your house, Derek,” I said, stepping past Celia. I wore a tailored cream blazer and sunglasses, looking every bit the woman who was finally closing a bad business deal. “It’s mine. And as of 9:01 AM, it’s officially on the market.”
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“You’re destroying my life!” he yelled, drawing the attention of the neighbors across the street who were out walking their dog.
“No, Derek,” I said coldly. “I’m cleaning house.”
