And when he reached the third page, he looked at Naya with an expression she had never seen before.
Fear.
"What exactly did I sign?"
Naya folded her hands over her pregnant belly.
For the first time since he entered the house, she smiled.
But it wasn't a happy smile.
It belonged to a woman who had finally stopped mistaking patience for surrender.
"You signed a statement confirming that you have no ownership interest in this house."
Her husband stared.
Then he laughed.
A sharp, disbelieving sound.
"That's ridiculous."
Naya tilted her head.
"Is it?"
He looked around the kitchen.
The white cabinets.
The granite island.
The expensive lighting fixtures.
The staircase leading toward the bedrooms.
The home he'd shown to friends, business partners, and relatives as evidence of his success.
His expression hardened.
"This is my house."
Naya slowly shook her head.
"No. This is the house I bought three years before I met you."
He opened his mouth.
She continued.
"The deed has always been in my name. You knew that when we married. And yesterday, in front of your own attorney, you signed another acknowledgment confirming it."
The mistress looked toward him.
"Baby?"
He ignored her.
Naya reached for a second document.
"And there's something else."
Her husband stared at the papers.
For a moment, his confidence seemed to drain away.
"What?"
Naya looked toward the silver suitcase.
Then toward the sleeping infant.
Finally, she met his eyes.
"The money you used to buy her that apartment didn't come from your business."
His face changed.
She continued quietly.
"It came from the account we were using to prepare for our daughter's birth."
The room fell silent.
Then Naya placed one final document on the granite countertop.
"And yesterday, you authorized a complete review of every transfer from that account."
Her husband stopped breathing for a moment.
The mistress looked toward him again.
This time, her expression wasn't smug.
It was frightened.
Because she had just realized that the man who promised her a luxurious home might not own the house, might not control the money, and might have made promises he had no way of keeping.
But Naya wasn't finished.
Not even close.
Six years earlier, Naya had been twenty-four years old and standing in the rain outside the same house.
It didn't look luxurious then.
The siding was stained.
The front porch sagged near the steps.
Weeds grew through the driveway.
And the kitchen windows were covered with plastic sheeting because the former owners had abandoned several repairs.