“So you stole,” I say evenly. “And blamed my wife.”
“You’re rich!” Ethan shouts.
“That doesn’t make me disposable,” I reply.
Margaret points at Isabella. “She’s poisoning you!”
“No,” I say. “You did.”
I outline it calmly. “Isabella becomes administrator of this house. Access to my accounts is revoked. We audit everything. If there’s fraud, I file charges.”
“You wouldn’t,” my mother whispers.
“Watch me.”
I turn to Isabella. “Do you want them out?”
She swallows. “Yes.”
“You have one hour,” I tell them.
They leave in chaos.
When the door shuts, the house exhales.
Isabella stands frozen.
“I’m disappointed,” I say gently.
She flinches.
“Not in you. In myself. I left you with wolves.”
Tears spill down her face. “I tried to be good.”
“You never needed to earn your place,” I say. “You’re my wife.”
The next day I hire a forensic accountant, change every password, install direct security lines.
And I do something else.
I put Isabella’s name on everything. Half the property. Legal authority. Written power.
“Why?” she asks softly.
“Because you’re not a guest in your own life.”
But my mother calls again, trying to twist the narrative — claiming Isabella took money.