I put on a navy blazer, took a folder from the bottom drawer of my desk, and drove the small sedan we almost never used to a notary’s office in Beverly Hills. Inside the folder were the deeds to the house, which was a home in the hills of Brentwood that my father had given me five years before I got married with an express clause stating it was my separate property.
I didn’t scream and I didn’t call Tiffany. Sitting across from the notary, I said in a firm voice that I wanted to put the house up for sale that very day.
That same afternoon, when Harrison arrived and saw a real estate agent photographing the living room, the color drained from his face. The agent’s name was Monica James, and she arrived with an efficient energy that contrasted sharply with the thick silence of the house.
Monica measured the spaces and checked the terrace while I followed behind her, answering precisely about usable square footage and kitchen remodeling. When Harrison opened the door and saw her framing the main staircase, he put his briefcase down on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” Harrison asked. Monica smiled professionally and explained that we were preparing the sales sheet for the property.
Harrison turned towards me with an expression somewhere between disbelief and offense. “Elena, tell her to leave,” he demanded.
“No,” I replied. Monica immediately understood that this wasn’t a real estate misunderstanding and continued working discreetly.
“No? Are you crazy?” Harrison took a step toward me. I told him that I wasn’t crazy, just tired.
“This house belongs to the family,” Harrison’s jaw tightened. I corrected him, stating clearly that the house belonged to me.
I saw in his eyes the exact moment he realized the deeds and my father’s donation meant the house was my separate property. “You’re married to me. You can’t make a decision like this without talking about it,” he said, lowering his voice.
“And you can give away my car without talking to me?” I countered. Harrison didn’t answer.
Monica continued photographing the dining room and then asked to see the master bedroom. Harrison glared at her, but she only raised her eyebrows politely.
“I will continue when I am told,” Monica said. “Continue,” I told her.