“Then show some respect for the grandson you claim to mourn.”

Mitchell stood.

For one brief moment, I thought he might defend me.

Instead, he grabbed my arm and struck me.

Now, standing in the foyer, he ordered me upstairs to pack.

“You aren’t taking anything I paid for,” he said. “Not the SUV, not the jewelry, and not a single credit card.”

Marjorie extended her hand.

“The keys, too. This property belongs to the Whitfield family.”

I looked around the mansion.

The marble floors, oak staircase, enormous chandelier, and elevator Marjorie loved showing guests were all familiar.

What neither of them understood was that I’d purchased the property six months before marrying Mitchell.

My attorneys had arranged the purchase through a holding company called Ridgemont Residential Holdings.

I controlled that company.

Mitchell had never bothered to investigate why the mortgage disappeared or why the property’s financial records never came to him.

He also didn’t know that the $9,000 Marjorie received every month for her driver, medical expenses, club membership, and vacations came from my accounts.