“She Mocked My Beach House at Breakfast — That Evening, I Sold Everything She Thought Was Hers”

yesterday.”

“You—” She struggled for words, her perfect composure cracking. “You can’t do this. Those properties were meant for—”

“For you?” I stood, walking to the window. “They were never yours, Savannah. They were mine. Built with my work, my money, my life. You wanted to call them excess inventory? Fine. I liquidated them.”

“Caleb will—”

“Caleb will continue reading …