I had learned long ago that whenever Ethan heard about my money, he somehow decided my success should benefit him.
Ethan arrived that afternoon with our parents and his fiancée, Chloe, bringing champagne and an unbelievable sense of entitlement.
“We need to settle something,” he said, dropping onto my sofa. “Chloe and I are taking the penthouse after the wedding.”
I stared at him.
“Taking?”
Mom smiled as if she were explaining something obvious to a child.
“You’re single, Claire. You don’t need four bedrooms.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You can rent somewhere in Queens,” Dad said. “Temporarily.”
Ethan pushed a folder across the table.
I opened it and found a deed-transfer form inside.
“You already had paperwork prepared?”
He grinned.
“Dad knows a guy.”
I closed the folder.
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
Ethan stood.
“I’ve spent months telling Chloe this would be our home.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
