Chapter 4 - The Open House
Three days later, Celia Monroe held the first Saturday open house for the Raleigh property.
The listing had exploded on Zillow and local real estate groups. Within twenty-four hours, over forty booking requests had flooded Celia’s scheduling portal. The house was priced competitively, staged impeccably with neutral linens, fresh orchids, and the subtle scent of vanilla candles masking any lingering memory of Derek.
I arrived at 1:30 PM just to review the paperwork with Celia in the driveway.
As we stood by her sleek black sedan, a familiar silver sedan pulled up to the curb.
Derek stepped out. He looked terrible. His suit was wrinkled, his hair was uncombed, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept in a week, and it showed.
“Maren,” he said, his voice cracking as he hurried across the lawn past two prospective buyers who were walking toward the front door.
“Derek, you shouldn't be here,” Celia warned, stepping in front of him with a clipboard. “This is a private open house under court-sanctioned property distribution. You are trespassing.”
“I live here!” Derek shouted, pointing at the front door. “That’s my bedroom upstairs! That’s my closet!”
“Not anymore, Mr. Sloan,” Celia replied coldly. “The deed is exclusively in Mrs. Sloan’s name, and my clients are currently touring the master suite.”
Derek tried to push past Celia. “Get out of my way! I’m going inside!”
I didn't yell. I didn't call the police. I simply pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, unlocked the screen, and tapped on the live security feed connected to the smart-lock camera in the foyer.
“Derek,” I called out, my voice carrying clearly across the front lawn.
He stopped, turning around with a desperate, wild expression.
“Look at the screen,” I said, holding up my phone.
On the bright OLED display, the wide-angle camera showed the elegant foyer of the house. Walking down the grand staircase at that exact moment was a couple in their early forties—the husband in a crisp tailored polo, the wife wearing sunglasses pushed up into her hair, admiring the crown molding.
“That’s Dr. Harrison and his wife,” I said smoothly. “He’s the chief of surgery at Rex Hospital. They just sold their estate in North Hills for 1.4 million cash.”
Derek stared at my phone screen in horror.
“They love the open floor plan,” I continued, my voice calm and steady. “They love the kitchen. And Dr. Harrison just told his wife that he’s willing to offer twenty thousand over asking price if we accept an immediate cash offer today.”
Derek’s knees seemed to buckle. He dropped his briefcase onto the grass.
“Maren… please,” he whispered, his voice finally breaking into a pathetic, ragged sob. “Don’t sell it to them. Don’t erase us. I was an idiot. I was arrogant. I let my mother get into my head. But I love this house. And… and I thought I loved you. I do love you.”
I looked at the man who had spent three years telling me I was second best, who had used me as a placeholder, who had let his mother humiliate me while he sipped wine and smiled a careless, cruel smile.
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“You don’t love me, Derek,” I said quietly. “You love the life I bought you. You love the peace I provided while you plotted your next escape. But you’re never going to live in this house again.”
I turned to Celia. “Let’s go inside. Dr. Harrison wants to talk numbers.”
