“It’s not our money until we’re married,” he shot back, slipping into a desperate, legalistic defensiveness. “Technically. And it was my contribution to the account. I can do what I want with it.”
“So your twenty-five-thousand-dollar down payment and your monthly contributions are yours to spend on your family’s needs. But my significantly larger financial investment in our future is what? Community property to be managed according to your sister’s guidelines?”
“You are unbelievable,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Last night was about my sister having a big mouth. And now you’re trying to turn me into some kind of financial predator. You’re paranoid.”
My phone buzzed on the counter. A calendar alert. 11:00 a.m. Meeting with Chloe, Klein Bower Offices. Daniel saw it. His eyes narrowed.
“Chloe? You’re meeting with your lawyer friend about us? Are you kidding me?”
“I need to understand my legal position,” I said, picking up my phone and my bag. “Since my future seems to be up for negotiation by committee, I’d better know what I’m bringing to the table.”
“Your legal position?” he echoed, aghast. “We’re engaged. We’re supposed to be planning a wedding. You’re talking to a lawyer.”
“You refused a prenup, Daniel,” I said as I walked to the door. “You said love didn’t need a contract. It seems you were wrong. Love might not need one, but your family’s traditions certainly do. I’ll be back later. I’d like you to be gone. And I’d like my key on the counter.”
“You’re throwing me out over this?”
“I’m asking for space. And for my key.”
“Or what?” he challenged, a flash of the old confident Daniel breaking through the panic.
I opened the door and looked back at him, standing in the kitchen of the home I had bought before I even knew him, surrounded by the life I had built.
“Or I’ll have the locks changed today, and I’ll call your father’s friend, the real estate attorney, and ask for a very specific, very urgent review of our property title. Your choice.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I closed the door behind me. The click of the latch was a definitive, satisfying sound.
The drive to Chloe’s downtown office was a blur of gray November sky and steely resolve. The hollow feeling was gone, completely replaced by a focused, electric anger. Chloe’s corner office was all sleek lines and panoramic views of the Chicago River. She stood up as I entered, dispensing with hello.
“Okay. Talk. What happened after you left?”
I told her about Daniel’s visit, the conversation as close to verbatim as I could manage. When I got to the part about the joint account transfers, she held up a hand.
“Stop. He said, ‘It’s not our money until we’re married’?”
“Yes.”
She let out a short, sharp laugh.
“Oh, that’s precious. Legally inaccurate, but precious.”
She started typing furiously on her keyboard.
“Give me the approximate dates and amounts of those transfers. And the name on the recipient account is just J. Wright?”
“Yes. Fifteen hundred last month, around the fifteenth. Another for eight hundred about six weeks before that.”
She nodded, making notes.
“All right. First order of business, the deed.”
