The Love We Missed Chapter 04

The Love We Missed Chapter 04

That afternoon, the listing agent called with the comps.

We bought the place three years ago for 1.4 million and sank another hundred and fifty into renovations. We still owed six hundred grand on the mortgage.

“What are we looking at?” I asked.

“Highest active comp on your street is under a million,” he said. “The lowest just dropped to eight hundred.”

I frowned. “The neighborhood took that big of a hit?”

“The market’s dead, sir. With your upgrades, we might clear eight-fifty if we’re lucky.”

Eight-fifty? Selling at that price was lighting money on fire.

Between what we put in and what the market wiped out, I’d take a massive loss. When I married Vivian, eight hundred grand wouldn’t buy half this square footage.

I held the phone, staring at the dash. “Let me think about it.”

I dialed Claire immediately.

“Claire, the market’s in free fall. Selling at eight-fifty is suicide. What if I borrow the cash and buy you out instead?”

Silence stretched across the line.

“My position hasn’t changed,” she said evenly. “I’m not leaving my name on that mortgage. The house gets sold.”

The line went dead.

“Fuck.”

I threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

She had always seemed so quiet, but once she dug her heels in, you couldn’t move her an inch. And here I thought she was finally being reasonable.

It was all an act.

I took a breath and called the agent back.

“List it. Start at a million and let’s see who bites.”

He put it on the MLS that evening.

Three days passed without a single showing. The agent warned me that without a price cut, we were basically invisible on Zillow.

A model match down the block had just dropped to seven-fifty, pulling in every single buyer.

I stared at the listing stats on my screen, my brain working overtime.

Then it clicked.

Six hundred thousand.

I could get a reliable buddy to step in as a straw buyer and sign a side agreement. On paper, the property was sold; in reality, it stayed in my pocket.

Six hundred grand covered the mortgage balance to the dollar.

Besides, I had already funneled nearly four hundred grand into Vivian’s accounts over the past few years anyway.

A stay-at-home mom trying to play chess with a senior director of finance?

She didn’t have the stomach for it.

I called the agent back. “I found a private buyer. Just handle the paperwork and closing. You’ll still get your transaction fee.”

“Understood, sir,” he said. “We can process the title transfer.”

A week later, the contract was ready.

I called Claire. “Found a buyer. Come down and sign the purchase agreement.”

A brief pause. “What’s the offer?”

“Six hundred.”

“Six hundred thousand?”

Her voice drifted up at the end—not shocked, but like someone watching a bad joke play out exactly as expected.

Then came a soft, dry laugh. Barely a breath, like a feather drifting onto concrete.

“Good,” Claire said quietly. “At that price, I’ll just sell it to my brother.”

My head went completely numb. “What did you say?”

“I keep things simple because I don’t like drama, not because I’m stupid.”

“Don’t play me for a fool. 1.2 million, minimum. Anything less, don’t waste my time.”

Click.

The dial tone hummed against my ear.

A sudden, unfamiliar coldness gripped my chest.

I had shared a bed with this woman, and I had no idea who she was.